Mirror, Mirror
by jskurious
Summary: Santana accepts that there were a certain prices to be paid for her success. Loneliness is just one of them. When a half-serious drunken suggestion makes her think about a cure for her loneliness, she's not sure whether she could actually go through with it or not. But of all the prices she has to pay, this is one, at least, she knows she can afford. Probably.
1. Chapter 1

So, I've been working on this story for a while, because I don't like the idea of putting it up until I can give regular updates until it's finished.

Right now I'm planning in updating every other day until it's finished, but I am open to bribery. Let me know what you think and faster updates are entirely possible.

* * *

It's one of the sad ironies of life that there is a lot of truth in all those old clichéd bits of advice your mother gave you when you were little. Things like 'be careful what you wish for.'

When I was young, my goal in life was simple. I wanted to be famous. I wanted people to know my name and love me. Like that would somehow convince me that I was loveable or even worthwhile. I can say now, after countless hours of therapy, that part of what I wanted was also acknowledgment and attention from my parents.

But as with all really good karma, I wished so hard that people would notice me that I forgot, or didn't realize until it was too late, that it's much more important to really be seen. Seen for who and what you are on the inside instead of some manufactured image sold to the breathless throngs of people looking for an escape every bit as much as you are. I guess it's a symbiotic relationship. I need the attention, they need a focus for their collective insanity.

The shit ton of money I make helps, too.

On the other hand, it's also an unfortunate truth that the more attention you have from a mass of people, the less you seem to have in private. Hell, I don't feel like I even have a private life anymore.

Maybe it would be easier if I was straight. Or mildly bi enough to be able to have some sort of fulfilling relationship with a guy. Then I could have at least a band-aid for the loneliness. Because despite the fact that my manager could literally walk around with a flashing neon "Gay Gay Gay" sign over his head, he and the rest of my PR team would have a collective apoplexy at the suggestion of me being allowed to openly have a girlfriend.

I've had a couple of not-so-open girlfriends, but that never seems to last long. The already strict constraints on my time and my carefully crafted public image leave me with nothing to offer someone but, well, me. I can lavish presents in private and Rock her Casbah all night long, but I have to be someone different in the daylight. And as shocking as it sounds, that hasn't exactly been a good formula for a stable love life.

I used to hate every second of it, to drink myself into oblivion and have random drunken hookups that left my team scrambling to cover up. But I've gotten older and calmed down at least enough to accept the bed I've made for myself, no matter how cold and lonely it gets between the sheets. Maybe it was the Grammys. Winning three in a single night gave me an overload of acceptance and acknowledgement and I'll probably ride the high of that for at least a little while. My achingly single existence has proven to be far too interesting for the press, especially given my "stratospheric climb to success", and even the random fake boyfriends haven't done much to throw them off the scent.

So, on nights like this, I find that all I have are the few friends I have managed to keep from my childhood and the people I know I can trust if only because their livelihoods depend on me and my image as well. My Grammys are pretty enough, but not so good with conversation. And I'm sure they would be completely useless in bed. Though I did have a sex dream about them once that was particularly disturbing.

Rachel sips from her wineglass and admires them openly, even as she makes sure I know that the Tony Award she's going to be nominated for any day now will mean more than every Grammy I could ever win combined. I toast to that, because it's easier than arguing, and because I know that if I were in her position, I'd probably feel the need to say the same thing.

That's the funny thing about the two of us. We hated each other in high school. Like, straight up loathing. And it wasn't until our final year together, when we had both grown enough to not feel threatened by each other's talent, that we came to understand how sickeningly alike we were. Even now, I know for a certainty that there's no one in the world who understands me better than this obnoxious, annoying little woman. I try my best not to think about what that says about me.

So as we drown our sorrows in obscenely expensive champagne, to celebrate the workshop she's gotten which she is absolutely certain will eventually land her on Broadway, the subject of my pathetically lonely existence eventually comes up, as it always does.

Rachel has her own problems in the bedroom. The biggest one being the huge, trollish oaf that has been planted there since she was a sophomore. She swears that she loves him, even though I think she is still far more in love with the idea of him than the actual reality. And at times he seems to love her, even though I don't think he has ever gotten over some resentment and envy of her talent. At the moment, he's drumming for a moderately successful cover band, that he would never admit owes much of their success to the gigs Rachel and I send their way. We mutually decided long ago that he could never be in my own band, because the two of us in that close of proximity just never leads to good things. It might be because I took his virginity, which both of us sincerely regretted pretty much before it was even over with (and that's saying something considering how quickly it actually was over with). It might be because he represented a lot of things I had some serious issues with at the time. At least the teasing is good natured these days. Mostly.

He's actually a good drummer. Creative, competent, but nothing that could touch the talent Rachel has in one little finger. He loves her for who she is, and I think hates her sometimes for the same reason. It makes him feel special that she would choose him, even now, and they both cling to that like a bad addiction neither one of them seems willing to try and shake.

And okay, so maybe I'm a little jaded where matters of the heart are concerned, but the two of them don't exactly inspire me to reach out and take a chance on love the way Rachel always insists I will have to someday.

When she tells me this again tonight, I roll my eyes and reply sullenly, "All I want is to get laid. Is that really too much to ask? Does everything have to come at some ridiculous price?"

Rachel takes another sip, burps rather obnoxiously, and starts giggling. "Well, you know, if price wasn't an object, I'm sure you could find someone."

I groan and fall back on the soft leather couch that I bought just to annoy my staunchly vegan friend.

"That's just not funny, Rachel."

"Well, but I mean, why not?" She sits up, her eyes hazy and giggles still erupt randomly. "I mean, if you want a warm body, even a hot one, it's not like you're in the wrong place for that. I'm sure there are plenty of gorgeous women out there who would be more than willing to take you up on that."

"If I paid them." I say flatly, and she's too drunk to catch the dangerous glint in my voice.

"Well, I mean, yeah. It's not like you're not capable of attracting girls on your own Santana. I mean, I know there are literally thousands of girls that would probably do bodily harm to themselves for the privilege of sleeping with you. But what you want, or need I guess, is someone you can trust. Someone who is discreet. Someone who would be willing to satisfy your carnal desires," her voice is rising slightly, caught up in the passionate monologue so I can only sigh and wait for a her to finish and start supplying her imaginary applause, "and still understand that you have a career that defines your public persona. Go find yourself a Pretty Woman out there somewhere and turn her world upside down."

I shake my head, gulping down the rest of the bubbling amber liquid in my glass. "You know, that might be the most ridiculously offensive thing you have ever said to me. And that's really saying something."

"While that may be true, it doesn't mean I'm not right." She gets up, stumbling a little as she walks over to me. "If there's one thing this business has taught us both, it's that everything has a price. At least this way, you'll know what it is up front. I remember hearing somewhere that you're not really paying for someone sleeping with you. You're paying so they will leave whenever you tell them to. Or something like that." I frown, reluctantly seeing the logic in her argument. "And you know, you might even be able to write it off!" She gasps with far too much excitement. I can tell she's already casting the movie version of this story in her mind and nothing I say will dissuade her. I call down for my driver and make sure he pours her into the limo. Finn can have fun cleaning up the mess she will be in a little while. The price she'll pay for drinking to excess. A part of me knows that she suggested this as a part of the twisted jealousy and respect the two of us have for each other. We both know the one thing she has, and I don't, is a relationship.

Sometimes I even think part of the reason she clings to him so desperately is to remind herself of the one aspect of her life that she has always been able to be more successful than I have, even as my professional success has by far eclipsed hers, so far anyway. And to get me to do something like this, to make a mockery out of my love life would give her the chance to feel smugly superior every time she thinks about it. Every time Finn drives her crazy and makes her want to run screaming, she can remind herself that at least she has someone who chose to be with her, who she didn't have to pay for his time.

I feel myself sobering far too quickly, as I move over to the large window overlooking Central Park and all the tiny figures milling around below in the busy city. I consider again moving to L.A., finding a place with some isolation and privacy. Maybe a relationship would be easier to find out there.

Of course, all I'm likely to find anywhere is someone who is interested in me because of my fame, my image. I mean, yeah, I wanted to be famous. I didn't realize it meant that no one would want to get to know the real me anymore. So what would the difference really be? At least this way I would know where we stood from the beginning. A decision to use someone for her body while she uses me for my wealth is probably what I would wind up with regardless.

I spend a sleepless night that is going to give my makeup lady fits thinking it over. When I place the call to Kurt, he spends fifteen minutes telling me I'm crazy before he reluctantly agrees to start making some discreet phone calls. I have already begun to get an idea in my head of what I want, what kind of arrangement would work the best for me, and it's about that time that I realize I have already made up my mind to do it.

It's four days later when I get a phone call from a very blunt woman named Sue, who begins the conversation with, "Listen sister, I want you to know that I am the best and I offer the best. You'll pay dearly for it, and it'll be worth every penny. I have only best girls, or boys, whichever you are into. And so long as you aren't some kind of complete freak, I think we can do business."

I don't even know how to respond to any of that, so I clear my throat and begin my own side of the conversation very simply. "I want to choose." I say quietly, feeling my cheeks burning in a way they haven't since the first time I was ever naked with a girl.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't just want you to just try to e-harmony me and decide who shows up. I'd like a chance to meet some of the ladies who might be interested in.. um.. working with me, and see if there's anyone I might be interested in as well."

Sue cleared her throat. "I'm afraid that's highly unusual Ms. Lopez."

I pout slightly, only because she can't see me. I want to ask why not, but I'm afraid it's going to sound too much like admitting that everything I know about prostitution, I learned from watching Cathouse. Instead I go for cool and aloof, though I doubt she buys it. "I don't care. Make it happen and contact my manager with the details."

"You're talking about monopolizing my girls for an entire evening. Our time isn't free."

I chuckle softly, "I didn't expect it to be."

She seems taken aback by my reaction and stumbles a little bit, I smile wryly. There's nothing like having lots of money to throw around to help you make new friends.

"Well, okay then. I'll need you to let me know exactly what you're interested in, then."

I sigh, leaning back in my chair and staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. "I'd like someone in my general age range. Fit, or at least athletic. And.. um.. female, obviously."

"Top or bottom?" She asks, as I hear what sounds like tapping on a keyboard. I frown at the question.

"I'm not really into either one exclusively."

"Ethnicity?"

I shift uncomfortably, suddenly feeling even more like the two of us are conspiring to barter for human beings.

"Look, I don't care that much about any of that."

"Oh, come on, everyone cares whether they admit it or not Ms. Lopez. Let's not beat around the bush here, I'll leave that to you and the lucky lady of your choosing. Look, tell you what, I'll send your manager a group of photos and you can decide who you would like to have added this little cattle auction you've got planned, keeping in mind that the amount of money it will cost you will depend on how many girls you want to be able to choose from."

"That sounds fair, Ms. Sylvester." I say, trying not to imagine the shit Kurt is going to give me for this.

In fact, he gives me very little shit. Instead, what I get was profound disapproval and disappointment. In a way I guess that is worse, but at this point I have made up my mind and do my best to shut everything else out. I haven't had so much as a date, let alone a hook-up, in almost a year. I try to explain that to him and he winds up putting his fingers in his ears and humming loudly, saying he doesn't want to hear anything about it.

The next day I get an e-mail from him labeled 'Shopping List'. Inside are almost two dozen pictures of girls. I click through them all quickly the first time, then slow down and force myself to go through one by one. Most of them look like professional headshots. I wonder how many of them made these thinking they would be for casting directors instead of clients.

Most of them are pretty, a few are downright beautiful. In the end, I go through staring at their eyes. There are a couple in particular that stand out. A blonde with electric blue eyes, a brunette with an impish smile, a girl with almost black hair who looks kind of rough and wild. In the end I pick out six of them, in my own mind thinking of it like a dating site, or casting a part. Some of them I already know I probably won't choose, but only choosing two or three might make it seem like I'm angling for a group thing or something and that's not what I'm looking for.

I have Kurt arrange a little informal party, buying out the VIP lounge in La Pomme and grumbling the whole time about how much this little evening is going to cost me. I tell him to think of it as an expensive early birthday party and present for myself. He huffs and then does it anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

_I was going through what I have so far and realized that being about 14 chapters ahead in this story means I could probably go ahead and give another chapter tonight to get the story rolling for everyone._

_Enjoy ;)_

_Let me know what you think. Everyone can definitely expect regular updates (I'm still debating every day vs every other day) until it's finished._

* * *

I'm nervous as I get ready for what would normally be a random Tuesday evening. I put on a sleek red dress with red lipstick, smirking at myself in the mirror when I realize I might look more like a whore than any of the girls I was supposed to meet tonight. I suppose that would be fitting. In some ways I probably am. But my nerves, and my ego, will stand for nothing less than trying to look my best.

My hands are shaking as my driver helps me out of my limo. I suddenly wonder if I'm going to be taking my choice home with me tonight. I hadn't thought of that. I wonder if maybe I should have rented a hotel room, and then have a moment of sheer panic and the sudden urge to make a run for it.

But then, Rachel is there, because of course Kurt would have told her about this. And she has a broad smile and a mostly good-natured teasing glint in her eyes as she wraps one arm around my waist and practically drags me into the club.

"I was waiting for you." She calls into my ear, over the thump of the sound system. "You're never late to anything, so I figured you might be having second thoughts."

"Rachel, I'm pretty sure I've had fiftieth thoughts. At least. But what the hell, I'm here, right?"

"Right!" Rachel grins too broadly and I'm suddenly uncomfortably aware that there's a reasonably large part of her that is enjoying this because of how humiliating it is for me, because it gives her ego some kind of even ground to stand on after my recent success has bothered her so much. And what the hell, if your friends can't bask in your misfortune, then who can, right? My legs twitch to turn around and flee. But she must have expected that, because her grip is surprisingly firm as she steers me relentlessly through the club and then up into the VIP section which is pretty much swimming in gorgeous women.

Most of them are wearing some version of the little black dress. A few had overdone the jewelry. I almost have to chuckle, because I used to do that at every industry party I had the chance to attend, wanting to do anything and everything to get myself noticed. Only two have gone their own way. The tough looking brunette is wearing skin tight, black leather pants and a loose fitting white silk shirt that hugs her short, muscular figure in all kinds of wonderful ways. My mouth waters.

The flash of color out of the corner of my eye catches my attention then. It's the blonde, the one with those amazing eyes. She is wearing.. I pause, thinking 'What the hell is she wearing?' and then try not to laugh. Because her ensemble is a mix and match of inappropriately combined colors that looks like she was dressed by the love child of Lady Gaga and Punky Brewster. She has pale green gloves that stretch all the way to her elbow, with a lavender halter top and a golden, and slightly sparkly, mini-skirt.

I suddenly want Kurt to be here so badly I can't stand it, just to see his face turn fourteen shades of purple trying to bite back any commentary.

As it is, watching Rachel's eyes bulge out might be worth the price of admission. I wonder if the girl is making some kind of complicated commentary on being asked to this little gathering, or if that is just her own personal style. I find myself more interested in that question than I am in any of the other girls with their dangling earrings and brightly colored necklaces begging for attention in a way this girl manages to command it.

Her hair falls around her face in gentle waves, her make up exquisitely done, and somewhere in my mind I already know what my choice is going to be.

But I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders, deciding it's rude to invite all these women here without taking the time to at least meet them. I'm not sure at all if there is some kind of etiquette for these kinds of things, but if I were one of the hopefuls, I know I would at least want the chance to make my own pitch.

And so, with a cocktail that Rachel almost gleefully shoves in my hand, I begin to mill around the room, slightly amused by the way every eye in the place seems to follow me while trying to make it seem like they aren't.

Well, except the blonde, because she simply stares at me openly while dipping a finger into her drink and twirling it around. She only seems to look away a few times to cast what looked like longing glances toward the dance floor.

Most of the girls remind me of cheerleaders from back in high school, wearing a costume, playing a part because it was what they counted on to get them attention. They are banking on their ability to be desirable to get what they want, while making it perfectly clear what they are willing to offer in return. It makes me strangely nostalgic for a time when that kind of offer seemed much more innocent. I smile politely, listening to more than one rambling admission that they are fans, and even one who seems unable to hide a little bit of jealousy. I bite back a smirk, wondering if I should hook her up with Rachel for the evening, since it they have so much in common.

When I get to the girl in the leather pants, who calls herself Mack or something, she is almost refreshingly blunt. She eyes me up and down, clutching the neck of a beer bottle and smirks. Her eyes are dark and sparkle a little bit as she casually invades my personal space, leaning in to whisper in my ear.

"Let me know if you want to find out what I can hide in these pants."

I nearly choke and lean back to stare at her. I find myself completely unable to avoid dropping my eyes to below her beltline and trying to decide if she is just fucking with me. Or I guess, if that's just what she is really offering to do. Which is ridiculous because that's what they were all there to do, but I'm pretty sure this one would fit into Ms. Sylvester's 'top' category. She smirks again and tilts her hips, teasing and gloating over my clear interest. I gulp and force myself to look back into her eyes, trying to decide if there is something interesting going on beneath that arrogant mask of hers. Smiling politely, I turn away still undecided.

And then comes the blonde, who introduces herself as Brittany and reaches out to shake my hand firmly with an excited glimmer in her eyes.

I almost sigh, disappointed that this one seemed to be going the fangirl route. But then she sets herself apart again, leaning forward to whisper not at all quietly, "I hope you pick me." She leans back again, bouncing on her heels with excitement, "Because, you're really hot."

I blinked, but then find myself smiling. I'm not even sure how to respond to that, as she tilts her head curiously and waits. Finally I clear my throat and lick my lips, enjoying the way her eyes dip down to follow the motion. I'm well versed in how to bullshit and verbally primp and fluff people, as I have been doing the whole night, and for most of the past couple of years. Honesty is something much different. It is usually reserved only for my closest friends and the people I trust.

But this girl with her crazy clothes and guileless smile just seems to be able to skirt past an almost alarming number of my carefully constructed defenses. Honestly, it's a little bit terrifying. If she can crawl under my skin so easily, then how bad would it get when she had actual access to my skin. I sigh and smile at her. I suddenly wish this were just some girl I had met in a club somewhere.

On the other hand, if she was, then I would just have a different set of worries and hesitation about getting involved with her. She would probably just wind up as a one night stand, or worse, another girl I disappointed in the end. At least this way, everything is on the table from the beginning. That's the point of all this, isn't it?

Suddenly I realize the silence has stretched out too long between us. I fumble for a response and wind up returning the favor of honesty.

"I'm sorry, I'm just feeling a little awkward. This is a kind of new to me."

Brittany frowns, her eyes darting around for a second before she leans in, "Wait, you're not a virgin are you? Or just not with a girl?"

I gape at her and then before I could help it, I start laughing. She eventually joins in the laughter, still looking a little upset until I shake my head almost wildly.

"No!" I say it too loud and quickly lower my voice. "Um, no. Not new to sex. Or, y'know, with a girl." I whisper, and then feel ridiculous for it, because everyone in the room has undoubtedly clued in to the whole liking sex with girls thing. That thought is suddenly worrying in and of itself. No wonder Kurt has been popping Tums like candy. "I'm just new to.. um.. this kind of arrangement."

"Oh, okay." She smiles, her eyes nothing but kind. "Cool. Well, because virginity and curious straight girl sex is usually all boring and 'wait I'm not sure I want you to touch me there', and 'eww, it tastes all funny', or 'ow, fingernails!' and stuff." She makes a face and sticks out her tongue.

I can't help but start laughing again.

"But, you know, I'm kind of good at it and everything." She wiggles her eyebrows and I realize her honesty is the strangest and most unexpectedly charming thing I have heard in a long time. I also wonder if she is maybe a little bit high.

"That's.. good to know." I feel like the stupid smile has been permanently attached to my face.

"Well, it's not like you have to take my word for it." Her eyes practically glitter with excitement, and in that moment she is looking at me like I'm a dream come to life right in front of her. But then my smile freezes and my heart falls. Because I let myself forget where I am, and who it is I'm supposed to meet here. It is the job, the profession, for them to make me feel like this. It is their job to put on the perfect act and make me feel all gooey and special and not at all like I am actually paying them for their time. And this girl, I suddenly realize, might be telling the absolute truth. She might be so good at it, so good at doing her job that she practically has me swooning like one of my tweeny fangirls.

That thought feels utterly and completely terrifying in a way I have no idea how to handle.

She senses the change in my mood and frowns for a moment, before her face completely falls. My heart flutters, wanting like crazy to believe she is disappointed at losing a chance with me and not just a big payday, but the pragmatic, increasingly jaded voice in the back of my mind won't let me. It tells me I can never let myself forget who this is, or what any of these people are doing here. This is a glorified business transaction that I have naively made into some kind of romantic moment. I decide to blame Kurt, for no particular reason.

And of course Rachel, who is chatting with some of the girls and waving at me when I turn to her.

But when she sees my face, she starts toward me immediately and before she can reach me, I do the only thing I could think to do. I turn and bolt.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for the reviews and follows. I told you I was open to bribery. :)_

_I would also like to throw out a quick thank you to my friend Mistiec, who told me I absolutely had to keep going with the story when it was just an idea rattling around in my head. (And if you aren't reading her new story We Really Shouldn't Be Doing This, you really should be.) _

_So here's another chapter. Hope you like it. _

* * *

One of the perks of being an artist is having an excuse for being moody. I can lock myself away in my apartment and claim I'm working on songs or whatever and not just hiding out from the world in shame, even if that's what I'm really doing.

Rachel, of course, has never had a problem trying to invade my personal space if she's decided that it's for my own good. She starts knocking on my door at just after noon, ignoring several curse-laden texts, and stays for almost twenty minutes before I give in and crack the door open. At least she knew better than to use her key, but she does her best to push her way in anyway. I hold firm, since I know we couldn't actually have the conversation she wants to have standing in the hallway and I really don't want to have it at all. I figure it is inevitable at some point, but not quite yet.

"Can you just tell me what happened?" She practically pleads.

I look around, shifting uncomfortably. "Let's just say, I had a 'What in the fucking hell am I doing?' moment, okay?"

Her eyes look like she's trying too hard to emote her sympathy for me. It makes me want to slam the door in her face.

"I think you are just afraid to embrace something that could make you happy if it means making yourself vulnerable." I roll my eyes, thinking my shrink would probably agree with that assessment and yet not caring in the least.

"Well, you know what? That's my choice. And you've seen too many sappy movies if you really think that making myself 'vulnerable' to someone who is there as part of a business arrangement is in any way a good idea. This is the real world and the only thing that's going to get me is sold out to the highest bidder sooner or later."

"You don't…"

"I know that someone who starts out being in it for the money is always going to be in it for the money. And at some point there's going to be a better offer from somewhere else."

She opens her mouth to take a breath, like she's searching for how to respond. But then huffs it out again, her shoulders slumping.

"Look, I know your heart was in the right place with all this. And hey, I let myself go along with it, so that's on me. But, I mean, maybe some problems just don't have easy solutions Rachel. And yeah, I get a little lonely, but that's my choice too. I could get a girlfriend any time I decide it's time to torpedo my entire career, but I'm just not there yet."

"You shouldn't have to choose!" She cries passionately. I sigh.

"Welcome to the real world, Dorothy." I give her a crooked smile. "It sucks. Most of the time."

I'm grateful that she seems to let it go after that. I try to bury myself in my music, no matter how unfulfilling it feels anymore. The release of my next single is coming soon, and even though it's not my first choice, everyone tells me it's going to be a big hit. Before long we will have to start meetings to discuss the idea of a solo tour, which pretty much makes everyone a nervous wreck. Excited, but nervous.

A few weeks later, I have a weekend to myself with no big plans and spend all of Saturday buried in my favorite fashion magazines and watching the trashiest reality tv shows I can find. Because hey, if Honey Boo Boo can't make you feel better about your own life, then I feel really bad for you.

It's almost five when there is an uneven, almost hesitant, knock at my door. I get up curiously, hoping it isn't anyone I will be expected to entertain.

I open the door to find her shifting around nervously. Her clothes are still a bizarre mismatch of colors, but instead of the glittering excitement, she looks honestly terrified.

"Um, hello Santana." She says, with a somewhat apologetic smile.

"Brittany?"

She smiles, seeming relieved that I remember her. And of course I do, but that doesn't really help very much. What do you actually say to a hooker who randomly shows up at your door? Besides, 'How do you know where I live?' that is. But the answer has to be that someone told her, which means someone sent her. Well, at least my list of people to destroy isn't all that long.

"I, uh, I think there's been some kind of mistake…" I feel my throat going dry and lick at my lips. Her eyes fall down to follow the movement. Again. I gulp.

"No. I wasn't… I mean, I was told to tell you…" she closes her eyes, like she is trying hard to recite exactly from her memory, "that this evening is completely innocent and that it was organized by your best friend Rachel who sincerely hopes you will not do her any bodily harm because of it." She opens her eyes, nodding her head with a smile, clearly proud of herself for remembering. Rachel. Of course.

I stare, then blink, then stare again. Her smile falters just a little bit but she gamely doesn't bolt like I'm sure I would have in her place. Again.

I just can't seem to help myself. I slide to the side, opening the door and letting her walk through it, already trying to decide exactly what type of bodily harm Rachel is going to have coming for this. But she's actually standing right here in front of me, looking all sweet and hopeful. How am I supposed to exercise good judgment when she's so adorable?

She wanders around my apartment curiously, her hands wringing together a little bit giving away her nervousness. I eye her with a belly full of my own nerves. This space is my sanctuary. I usually only let those closest to me in here, so to have a relative stranger feels a little unnerving. Especially a stranger who might or might not be seeing me naked soon and expecting monetary compensation for it.

I can't see her face as she walks slowly along the wall, with my awards and accomplishments hanging in a stylish display of narcissism. She moves down to the black lacquer book case that currently holds a few random awards neatly surrounding the small metal gramophones that still looked very surreal sitting there. One hand moves up slowly toward it, before she seems to catch herself and pulls it back, turning to give me an apologetic look.

I chuckle, suddenly feeling calmer, as though her obvious anxiety somehow makes it easier to let go of some of my own.

"It's okay." I say quietly, moving beside her and smiling when she unconsciously takes a step away as I reach up for the nearest Grammy. I turn and hold it out for her, enjoying the wide-eyed stare as she holds out her hands to catch the surprising weight of it.

"Wow." She rolls it over and over in her hands, examining the plaque in front, then each of the tiny details, running her fingers along the cool metal in wonder. I find that people who look at them fall into two categories. The ones who can't believe they really have the chance to touch one. And the ones who stare at the plaques like they are trying to burn their own name into them instead of mine. I relax a little more when she seems to fall into the first category.

"I keep waiting for them to realize it was all a big mistake and come to take them back." I smile when she hands it back to me and I place it carefully back on the shelf, nudging it a couple of times until it is in the perfect position once again.

"Why would they do that?" Her brow furrows.

"They probably won't, it's just still so hard to believe all this is really my life." Of course, if the critics had their way, they would have been confiscated already for being 'make up' awards that should have been given to my more unpretentious first album, _Mirror, Mirror_, named after the second single I ever released, instead of the pop candy that was my second album _Sold Out_.

And yeah, that one did wind up being a sort of unintentionally ironic commentary on the state of my artistic efforts. But it also was an accurate description of how it was received. I haven't checked in a couple of days, but it's been on the Billboard Top 100 for the better part of a year.

Those amazingly blue eyes pin themselves on me now, staring at my face with the same kind of fascination she seemed to have for the little statue. Taking in every tiny detail. It hits me suddenly that I'm not even wearing makeup. I grimace lightly, trying to fight the urge to make a run for my vanity while one of my hands raises reflexively toward my cheek.

My vanity. I suppose the irony of that one is fitting, too. Maybe that's what I should call my new album.

Her eyes are soft when she reaches out to take my hand before it can reach my face. Warm, soft fingers surround mine as she tugs it down toward her waist.

"Don't. You're beautiful." My heart pounds suddenly at the way she seems to read my mind so easily and once again I felt the familiar urge to bolt. But she has ahold of me now, and I get the impression she's not planning on letting go any time soon. I feel surprisingly okay with that.

"I swear," she says quietly, taking a half step forward, "I didn't come here just to…" she shrugs, looking up at me almost shyly. "I really meant it when I said this could all be totally PG if you wanted it that way." Gulping, she edges even closer until I can feel the heat of her skin against mine and the gently enticing scent of her perfume seems to wrap itself around me and goes straight to my head. I nearly fucking swoon.

I do not swoon. Or I never have before, anyway.

She takes in my reaction, a slight smile ghosting across her lips as her eyes glint in a way that almost feels dangerous.

"But, I don't think that's really want you want, is it?"

I will not whimper, I tell myself sternly, even as my knees threaten to buckle. After a moment I realize she is waiting for a response. I go back and tried to puzzle through her words again in my increasingly hazy mind.

"We could sit and talk," she bends forward, until her breath slides across my cheek like a caress, "watch a movie or something. Rachel actually made a list of suggestions for that."

I blink, trying to figure out how Rachel figures into all this.

"But…" when she smiles, her eyes have an almost cat-like angle, her nose brushes against the corner of my mouth and I open it unconsciously, the cool air drying my lips as I start to pant, "I think maybe there's something else you'd rather be doing." She grins, showing her teeth. "I know there's something I'd rather be doing."

It's not hard to figure out what she means, or at least what I suddenly desperately hope she means. But then all the questions flood my mind. Should we be negotiating something, or is there some sort of procedure you are supposed to follow? I have no idea how this is supposed to work with someone who does this for the business more than the pleasure of it.

Before I can work myself into a panic over it, she leans in to me like she had magnets under her skin drawing her forward. Her eyes are focused hard on my lips and before I can lick away their sudden dryness, she decides to do it for me.

I gasp when I feel the tip of her tongue slide gently along my upper lip. She pulls back, licking at her own lips as though she is considering the taste of my skin, her gaze still trained squarely on my mouth. My chin edges forward slightly before I can help myself, and it seems to be the sign she's waiting for. Because then she's kissing me, her arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders like she is afraid I might vanish somehow.

She clutches at me so desperately it's easy to get lost in that, to let myself forget who she is and why she's here, to forget anything but the way she makes me feel like she's never wanted anything more than this in her whole life.

I kiss her back.

A high, whimpering sound escapes into my mouth as she presses herself completely against me, her hips bumping against mine insistently as her hands begin a restless exploration.

They find my skin quickly and nudge the light cotton of my shirt upward to brush her fingertips over my almost shockingly sensitive skin. I groan softly and she sucks in a breath, like she's trying to drink it in, chasing the sounds into my mouth with her tongue. She bends her knees, crouching down until her shoulders are below mine, her arms wrapping themselves even tighter around my waist. With a soft grunt, she stands up, lifting me up with her.

I squeal a little in surprise as she holds my weight easily, walking us backward until my hips are pressed up against the heavy dining room table. The wooden legs squeak slightly against the floor as we push into it. Brittany arches, lifting me up a little higher until my ass rests on the glossy surface and then she presses quickly between my legs. My arms fly back to brace myself, too shocked to do anything but let her sweep me away wherever she wants. I cry out, my head falling back, when she grinds herself into my crotch, her hands planting themselves possessively on my ass to pull me further into her.

Before long I feel her licking her way down the column of my neck, squirming at the almost ticklish sensation before she nips at me softly and makes my hips jump. Her fingers dig into the curve of my ass even harder for a moment before she pulls away, crouching down slowly once again, this time mouthing my breasts through the thin fabric of my shirt and nuzzling into my belly. She grabs hold of the waistband of my shorts and glances up at me, her eyes glittering with lust while they ask me the silent question.

I pant softly for a moment or two, before I brace myself again and lift my hips, letting her slide the material, along with my panties, down and off my legs. She moves away long enough to throw them behind her and then leans in to drag her lips up the inside of my right thigh, letting her tongue tease along the skin for a moment. My eyes roll back when she nips at the curve of my hip before letting her tongue slide its way through my wetness. I felt the heat of her breath as she moans into the sensitive flesh and my hips buck up against her like she has them on a string.

Very quickly, my thighs start quivering and I feel the rush building up inside of me in a way that is almost frightening. I open my eyes long enough to look down at her, the sight of those amazing eyes staring up at me while her mouth dances wickedly against my sex makes my body jerk hard against her for one more moment before locking up in waves of heady convulsions.

My sweaty hands slide against the smooth surface of the table with an annoying squeak and she pops up quickly, one strong arm wraps behind my back to keep me from falling back completely onto the centerpiece behind me. She pulls me in for a kiss, her lips now glossy as they descend toward me and the taste of myself on them turns me on all over again. It feels like she has unlocked someplace inside of me that I never even really knew was there, some pool of endless lust and desire.

As if to prove the point, her free hand slides around and through the liquid flesh, teasing me for just a moment before quickly sliding two fingers inside. My mouth gapes open as her skillful touch sweeps me away again, shocked that it is happening again so quickly.

My back arches as she pulls out and sinks deeply into me again, our lips parting with a smack and she actually fucking growls as she leans forward to bite gently along my jaw.

"God, Santana…" she moans and her powerful grip on me is all that kept me from slumping completely back onto the table. Brittany's forehead presses into my chest as she holds me tightly with one arm while rocking me into her firm, steady thrusts with the other. I slide back and forth along the embarrassingly slick surface of the table, surrendering my body to her as she drives me relentlessly up and over the peak again, biting at my nipple through the fabric of my shirt when I start to spasm. My legs go numb before I slide forward bonelessly into her body.

"Oh my god." I groan softly. I can hear her heart pounding against my cheek and close my eyes, almost letting myself forget who this is and why she is really here.

She giggles, leaning back to look down at me. "So much for keepings things PG."

I chuckle weakly, because yeah, we pretty much blew past R and into NC-17 territory. Though I can't help but think that was her plan all along, though I guess considering the tingling still coursing through my body I shouldn't complain about how good she is at doing her job. It's not her fault I find myself wishing all this could mean something else. Wishing it could be real instead of a fantasy, bought and paid for.

Though my breathing has started to calm down, that thought makes my heart rate pick back up again for a different reason, suddenly wondering what's supposed to happen now. I gulp softly and clear my throat, trying to figure out what to say when there's a quick knock at my door before it flies open.

Rachel starts talking before she even passes the doorway, a large box in her hands that obscures her vision.

"I realized that I didn't know if you actually had all the DVDs on my list, so I thought I would just…."

She looks up and sees us, and our imminently compromising position, and freezes. Except for her eyes, which slide slowly down our bodies, landing finally my panties lying on the floor behind Brittany.

I feel myself go completely cold. Is this why she set this up, sending Brittany over here so she could barge in on us? Is this some kind of twisted revenge for what a bitch I was to her in high school, or just her jealousy finally coming completely to the surface?

Her eyes are almost comically wide now, her mouth gaping open like a fish. It's a performance that would probably be worthy of that Tony she dreams of having some day. I suddenly want her to have it just so I can shove it straight up her ass.

I jerk back, my attention going back to Brittany, who is looking between us with eyes that suddenly look terrified again. I frown, because I didn't know she was up for best supporting role. Damn, I should have seen this coming, I can't believe I fell for it.

When she sees the look on my face, she backs up a few steps, nothing but apology in her eyes and I clench my jaw, trying to calm myself down enough to be able to speak.

"I think you should leave now." I say softly, because the alternative would include a quick pass through Lima Heights and she probably doesn't deserve that for just doing her job. Even if the job was doing me. Screwing me over in more ways than one in the process.

Tears spring up in her eyes as she looks back and forth between me and Rachel, looking scared and confused and I hate Rachel a little more in this moment for including her in whatever game she's playing here.

"Both of you need to just get the hell out of here right now before I call security."

"S…Santana, no! I didn't… It's not… I mean… Disney!" She holds up the box in her hands with wide, horrified looking eyes. My jaw clenches.

"Get. The fuck. Out." I growl the words and Brittany is already scrambling to the door. Rachel looks at her helplessly, then back to me. I guess I should have known this would happen eventually. In this business, nothing like real friendship can exist I guess. Money changes everything, after all. I meet her eyes with the almost terrifyingly cold fury. "And don't come back." I add quietly, ignoring the tears in her eyes as I slide awkwardly down off the table, ignoring my clothes all over the floor and walk back toward my bedroom with as much dignity as my bare, and still slightly damp, ass will let me.


	4. Chapter 4

_Wow, the reviews have been so great to read. Thank you so much. Made me decide to let this chapter be a little longer than I originally intended. Though I don't know if that makes me more or less evil in the long run. ;)_

_Here's the next part, let me know what you think (because I'm pretty sure you want me to expand the next chapter as well. hehe)_

* * *

The first call I make is to get the locks on my door changed. The second is to Kurt, telling him that if he wants to continue being my manager, he's never to mention or acknowledge Rachel Berry to me again. I consider for a moment whether to call and cancel all the gigs I helped arrange for Finn's band, but my anger has started to turn into something else.

The last call I make is to my mother, because she's the only one left I would trust to listen to me cry.

When I still can't sleep at three a.m., I get up with a pen wanting to purge my raging emotions the way I used to when I was young, by letting them out, finding the words to let go of the things poisoning my soul and letting them flow into a song.

But I wait, pen poised over an empty page, and nothing comes. I can't even remember how to write a good song anymore. That thought makes the pain even worse.

The next day I wake up, groggy and slightly hung over, and determine that I'm going to try my best to forget yesterday ever happened. I grab my gym clothes for the long run that I need to clear my head.

By the time I get back, I realize I'm going to have to change my number, since Rachel obviously can't take the hint. I'm a little surprised, because honestly, she can't have been so naïve as to think that she could play her little game and still be my friend. She made her choice, now she's just got to live with it.

I throw myself back into my work, trying not to let it bother me how mindless and trivial my new single is, seems compared to the songs I used to write. I pull out my notebook anyway almost every night, sometimes even my keyboard, waiting for a melody to come. The fact that I can't is starting to burn inside of me, bringing up old regrets. Old songs that were never quite the ones I meant them to be when I wrote them. There was still enough in them back then, though, enough that made it through the meddling of producers and executives to still carry some of the meaning they had on the pages of my old notebook. And of course, the one time they were written across my mirror.

They were all of about my sexuality in some way or other, about how it felt to hide from the world and want to be seen. But I was too scared to say it directly, and even in my watered down songs, the world apparently was happy enough to project its own issues onto my lyrics.

There were, and probably still are, websites dedicated to the gay interpretation of my lyrics. I think one of them is actually called Lezpez. I wonder if they would be euphoric or disappointed if they could catch a glimpse in my old notebook. I can almost laugh at the thought. Almost.

It's not until a couple of weeks later, when I'm out at a lunch meeting with Kurt that I mention my old songs to him. He tells me that I'm just lonely. I glare at the not-so-subtle dig at my isolation from my former friends, as well as my general descent into almost complete isolation.

"What do you want me to do, Kurt? Leave myself open to everyone who wants to take advantage of me? Maybe lonely isn't so bad if everyone is going to betray me in the end."

"Santana, you never even listened to her side of things." He says it quietly, his eyes still looking a little bit nervous as he mentions her, but I guess since I brought her up first, it's open season. Goody.

"Damn right, I didn't. And I don't fucking intend to. I hope she got her jollies or whatever she was hoping for out of that little scene she set up, I really do, because I guess she should get something out of what I thought was supposed to be a friendship. But if she wanted to hurt me, she didn't have to do it like that. And she didn't have to use that girl to do it."

He leans forward, his eyes pleading, "Santana, listen to yourself. Can you really picture Rachel doing something like that to you?"

"I don't have to picture it." I gulp down the rest of my wine, motioning to the waiter to fill my glass again. I've lost count of how many refills that will actually be. "I got the ringside seat for it. Well, I guess it was front row, center."

"Whatever it is you think actually happened," he winces at the death glare I am shooting him but soldiers on, "you're only hurting yourself by retreating from everyone. This isn't good for you, Santana. It's not healthy for you to isolate yourself so much."

"And what exactly are my options, Kurt? Go make a new friend and hope that I see the betrayal coming next time? Or go back to the one I thought I had and try to ignore it every time I see the teasing gloat in her eyes knowing how well she managed to play me?"

"Santana, come on…"

"No, I'm serious, Kurt." I lean forward, trying to ignore the attention we are getting, even in a place who makes their living by ignoring exactly this kind of scene. "What am I supposed to do? The only person in this whole mess who doesn't make me want to claw their eyes out, including you, is that girl, because hey, the only thing she really did was be too damn good at her job." I sit back with a huff, taking another gulp of wine. "It's almost funny because in a way, Rachel was right, at least I walked into that knowing what it was all about. It's not her fault she got caught up in whatever Rachel's little perverted fantasy of catching us happened to be."

"Will you listen to yourself? Santana, that's nothing but your psychotic theory about what happened, which you won't let go of because you won't hear her out!"

I set my jaw. "She sent her over there, didn't she Kurt? It was her idea."

"Well, sure, but not…"

"Oh, I'm sorry, that's right. I'm supposed to believe that she really sent the _hooker_ over to my apartment to watch Disney movies with me. Because that's a more realistic theory."

Kurt opens his mouth, then takes a breath and sighs.

"That's what I thought."

"Santana, this is Rachel we're talking about here. Do you really think it's impossible she did exactly that?"

This time it's me who can't respond. Because, while it might be the alcohol talking, I suppose I can actually picture Rachel being that oblivious.

Fuck, I hate being wrong. That still seems like a completely insane possibility, though. Of course, it's not like insanity and Rachel aren't already well acquainted with each other.

"At least hear her out, okay? Please? For me?" He puts his lip out and pouts like an infant. I hate that it actually seems to be working on me.

"I… I'll think about it, okay? No promises, no… just… I'll think about it."

I'm not sure if the thought that Rachel really might have sent a prostitute over to bond over saccharine cartoons is that much better, but at least it is lacking in the betrayal and intentionally humiliating motivations, so there's that. I stumble into my apartment, tossing my new keys on the table. But, on the other hand, I'm not sure whether it would be a general comment on my pathetically lonely existence or on Rachel's own sappy, starry-eyed hopefulness when it comes to matters of the heart. That is, after all, at least a part of what has kept her with the Pasty the Clown all these years.

I sigh, undeniably tipsy and unhappy again at the thought that I might owe her an apology, wondering if was just how ridiculously easily that girl took down every one of my defenses that left me so, well, defensive. Oh well, it's not like it's news to Rachel that I'm a massive bitch. That thought is oddly comforting as I barely make it to my bed before I collapse into oblivion, less troubled than I have been for a while.

It's not until I wake up, still half drunk and groggy in the middle of the night that the idea strikes me. Why do I have all my best ideas in the middle of the night?

I grab my phone and tap out a quick message to Kurt.

I tell him he's right, I'm too isolated. I want him to set up a meeting with Brittany as soon as possible. He's to handle all the… pragmatic details with her and her 'manager'. I just want her to show up and do what she does best.

That was the idea after all, right? No muss, no fuss.

No problem.

If she's willing, of course.

After a moment I type out another message, this one to Rachel. I tell her that in the future, I'll be arranging my own movie nights.

But if she wanted to go catch a show or something soon, maybe I could work my schedule around it.

I'm sure Kurt knows whatever new show with impossible to get tickets Rachel might be coveting these days, and they both know that's as close to an apology from me that they are going to get.

It's not until I lay down again that I feel myself getting a little bit nervous at the thought of seeing Brittany again. Assuming she would come anywhere near me again. After a few moments, I sigh, roll over and reach for my vibrator.

When I wake up well after eleven the next morning, I have two messages waiting for me. The first is from Rachel, telling me a show sounds really good. She can't help but add about a dozen exclamation points to the end of it, and I know I'm forgiven.

The second is from just a few minutes ago from Kurt, I can practically hear his annoyance and disapproval in the stilted tone he takes, asking me what night might be preferable for _movie watching_. I chew my lip for a moment, and before I can decide, I get another message from Kurt reminding me that most of my nights for the upcoming week are already booked. I have a few dinners, two parties (one of which I think is actually about the release of my new single), and the video shoot scheduled for next week which will undoubtedly run late and make me far too exhausted to properly appreciate the intricacies of Disney films.

I type out the response before I can stop myself. Three simple words.

_What about tonight?_

It's almost an hour before he responds and I might or might not have kept my phone clasped in my hand the entire time. I admit nothing.

His response, when it comes, is pretty straight forward.

_8pm. Be Nice This Time!_

I frown, wondering if I traumatized the poor girl or something. Before I can come up with an appropriately snarky come back, my phone buzzes again.

_Cuddling is available but not mandatory. And BTW, you owe me a massive Christmas bonus now. I'm thinking Maui. _

I read over his message a couple of times, making sure I understand the implication that she's mine for the whole evening, if that's what I want. I gulp down a sudden bout of butterflies that rival the ones that hit me before my name was called out at the Grammy's. I feel awkward, like I just worked up the nerve to ask a hot Cheerio to the Prom or something. I haven't even felt this nervous about a first date before, let alone a second… whatever you would call this.

The fact that I made something of an ass of myself the first time around probably adds to it a little bit. After all, I'm sort of hoping that this is something she actually wants to do, and not just an obligation. I consider for a few moments sending Kurt another message, wanting to clarify that she doesn't have to come if she doesn't want to. I could always go with my second choice from Sue's girls, even though that thought makes my stomach twist even more.

In the end, I decide to just let her show up. She's been pretty blunt so far, I'm hoping that she won't hide any discomfort she might feel and maybe let me make it up to her. That thought sends me on a whole new mission, as I throw on some sweats and grab my bag before heading out to make some preparations for the evening.

By 7:45 I have gotten everything in position, rearranged it three times and changed clothes at least a half dozen times. I've had on everything from lingerie to one of my nicest dresses. I have told myself, repeatedly, that I'm being ridiculous. That how I look is probably completely irrelevant to the entire purpose of this evening and I'm trying to impress someone who is doing this for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with how I look and everything to do with how much I can pay.

I just can't seem to help myself, though. In the end, I have settled on a simple black jersey dress, with lingerie underneath, because why not? It makes me feel sexy and more confident about the whole thing.

When I hear that hesitant knock again, I practically run to the door, then force myself to stop for a moment to compose myself. When I open the door I find very nervous blue eyes looking back at me.

She's wearing simple grey leggings and a purple sweatshirt that falls off her shoulder like some kind of fantasy out of Flashdance. Her hair is falling down around her shoulders in waves. Her eyes skim down over my dress, lingering over the curves it displays in a way that is pretty satisfying before they make it back up to my face. She remains just outside the door, still looking awkward and uncertain.

"I…um… I didn't have time to change or anything…"

"Oh, that's okay." I smile and she seems to relax a little bit. "I know this was kind of a.. umm.. last minute sort of thing. I'm.. I'm glad you could come." I meet her eyes, wanting her to know I really mean that. "I also wanted to apologize for how things went last time, I shouldn't have…"

"No!" She holds her hands up, looking alarmed. "I was the one who.. I mean, I feel like I should… I really…."

"Let's just start over." I cut off her rambling, worried she's going to make me even more nervous than I already am. "Would you like to come in?"

She smiles in a way that feels more polite than genuine but walks through the door when I open it wider. I wait for a moment, gnawing on my lip until I hear the gasp I'm expecting. I have had time to prepare for the evening and that includes a nice, candlelit dinner. Even if this isn't a date in the strictest sense of the term, I like the idea of a romantic evening. I can tell myself I'm doing it mainly for me. That may or may not be the truth.

When she turns to look at me curiously I shrug. "I guess I just felt like spoiling us a little bit." I take a breath that I'm sure shakes just a little bit. "I hope that's okay?"

If anything, she looks even more uncertain now and I'm worried I somehow have managed to screw all this up again.

"I bought a few Disney movies." I blurt, for no apparent reason, because it's not like I want to pretend this is all innocent and I don't really plan on fucking this girl's brains out tonight. But somehow I seem to have finally said the right thing. She smiles for real this time and looks up at me almost shyly.

I realize, with the way my belly still flutters, that I have no freakin idea what I'm doing here. But for some reason, I kind of like it anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

_Um.. holy crap. I am totally blown away by the reviews and follows. If you guys are trying to get me to do a double posting today, I could probably be convinced ;)_

_(Second part would be later tonight, when I'm sure I can stay far enough ahead in the story, because I really want to make sure I can do regular updates all the way through to the end.)_

_Anyway, on with the show!_

* * *

I pull out a chair for her and pour her a glass of champagne, revealing a prime rib dinner with a flourish which she stares at, looking shocked again.

"Oh God, you're not vegan or something are you?"

She laughs and I relax a little bit again. "No." She clears her throat. "No, I just wasn't expecting… I mean, I didn't know what to expect or anything. But, this is really nice. I've never.. I mean.. Thanks." When she rambles to a halt I get the feeling what she's telling me is that no one has given her a romantic evening like this before. That thought makes me somehow sad and happy at the same time. I feel like I've added all sorts of unnecessary tension to this night now. Maybe I should have just gone with the lingerie and pounced on her as soon as she got in the door.

Because now I find myself wanting to romance her and give her the night of her life, even if it's only watching Disney movies. Though, honestly, that would really kind of suck for me. I've heard people talk about the 'girlfriend experience' when it comes to specialties of the high price call girls, but somehow I don't think guilt and a stifled libido are supposed to be part of the package. That's a little bit too much realism. Still, since I'm not yet a complete asshole (though I'm sure many would disagree) I duly stifle and sit her down to what I hope is one of the best meals she will ever have.

The way she moans when she puts a bite of that prime rib in her mouth isn't so much helping with the stifling, I have to say. Neither is the full on orgasmic eye roll that chocolate truffles get. I wonder how rude it would actually be to say I have to use the bathroom and run back for a quick round with my favorite vibrator? Probably pretty rude. Damn.

So, Disney it is. I have a sudden urge to hurl Rachel Berry off a very tall building.

I hold up the movies I bought like cards and let Brittany pick out the one she wants. She goes with Lady and the Tramp and I realize I can't remember ever watching the whole thing. I dig out some popcorn from the pantry and settle in for a much different evening than the one I was counting on. I'm not completely sure where to sit, so when I find her one end of the sofa I try not to sigh when I move to take the other. I see her watching me out of the corner of her eye and before long, she scoots closer, making it look like it's so that she has better access to the popcorn and the rest of the plate of truffles, even though I'm wishing it was so she could have better access to some other kinds of treats.

By the time Lady and her Tramp are being serenaded by candlelight, I'm starting to feel a little bit sleepy. Brittany has scooted over close enough that I can feel the heat from her legs. She grins wildly after the Tramp noses his meatball, reaching out to grab the plate of truffles with an impish look and a wiggle of her eyebrows. She holds the plate up between us and leans forward, nudging one of the last truffles toward me with her nose.

I giggle and stare at her. There's a sparkle in her eyes and somehow I know that I'm probably getting myself into all sorts of trouble here. But with a grin I couldn't help if I tried, I reach out and take the truffle she offered me, biting off half and before I can second guess myself, I reach out to offer her the other half. Never breaking eye contact with me, she leans forward and snakes her tongue out, wrapping it around the treat just enough to brush against my finger before sliding it into her mouth. My smile falters and my heart pounds all of a sudden. Yup. Trouble. So fucking much trouble here.

With that gleam still in her eye, she takes the nearly empty bowl of popcorn from my lap and lays it on the coffee table, snagging the last truffle from the plate before setting it aside as well.

I swear my heart is pounding so hard I can feel ever beat vibrating my skin. Damn, there might be some good lyrics in there somewhere.

Before I can get too distracted, Brittany rises up on her knees and scoots toward me, swinging one leg around and straddling my lap. She holds my now extremely heated gaze as she slowly slides the chocolate covered treat between her lips, holding it steady between perfect white teeth, and then lifts a brow toward me like a challenge.

Okay, I'm pretty sure this part was edited out of the Disney version.

I lean up, letting my tongue slide around the edge of the truffle, collected the powdered chocolate and then teasing it along the edge of her lips. My hands find their way around her waist and I unconsciously tug her closer before opening my mouth completely and devouring the truffle and her kiss all at once. She teases the chocolate between us, her tongue batting it playfully into my mouth before pulling it back again. I groan softly when her chocolaty tongue brushes against mine. I finally bite the candy in half, just to hurry up and be rid of it, because I want her taste in my mouth now. But she pulls back slightly as she chews, ignoring my frown as she easily bends backwards toward the coffee table, trusting my arms wrapped around her waist to keep her steady as she effortlessly does a full backbend reaching for one of the abandoned glasses of champagne. Still leaned back, she tips the amber liquid into her mouth before quickly arching back into me and pressing our lips together, letting the strange mix of flavors flow into my mouth, chased quickly by her tongue.

I gulp it down, meeting the strokes of her tongue fully, clutching her just a little bit tighter around the waist as she wraps her arms around my neck and just lets herself sink into my body.

It's hard to be sure how long the kiss lasts. All I know is that it is far and away the best kiss I've ever had in my life, as all the other flavors slowly disappear until it's just the heated tang of her that I am savoring. She makes soft little noises in her throat, and her hips start to rock slowly against me. My hands find their way down to cup her amazingly firm ass, loving the way I can feel the muscles flex and dip with every motion of her hips. I squeeze. Because really, who wouldn't? And am rewarded with an even more delicious, high pitched moan delivered into my mouth.

I can't even describe to you what just happened in my panties.

With a gasp, I lean my head back, eyes fluttering as she immediately slides her kisses to my jaw and then down my neck. My hands find their way below the waistband of her leggings, greedily tracing the curve of her ass until they find the edge of her thong. I squeeze again, this time digging my nails slightly into her skin.

Brittany responds with a sharp nip on the side of my neck and I swear I'm so wet I might just slip 'n slide across the couch if I'm not careful.

My mouth opens, trying to form coherent words, but can only come up with stuttering syllables, like "B…Guh…" until she finally leans away long enough to meet my eyes again.

"Bed." I finally manage and am rewarded with a huge smile. Though I can't help but groan when she slides off my lap and yanks me unceremoniously to my feet. My skirt has ridden up to soft core porn levels and when I reach down to smooth it down, Brittany shakes her head, crouching down to wrap her arms around my waist. I roll my eyes slightly before she lifts me up once again. I squeal softly, wrapping my arms and this time my legs as well around her, holding on tight as endless giggles accompany her trying to maneuver her way around my apartment.

I want to shout with victory when we finally cross into my bedroom and she propels us playfully onto the bed that is one of my only true indulgences. It's massive, a California king that they actually had to remove the doors completely just to fit into the apartment.

Still laughing, she rolls onto her back and I follow her quickly, dipping down to kiss her again, just because I can. This time it's her hands that have found their way to my ass again, and she doesn't waste any more time before sliding my dress up and over my hips, her fingers quickly finding the lace that's artfully, if somewhat damply, left covering my lower body. Pulling away from the kiss, Brittany's eyes are the color of the ocean in a storm when they pull back to take in the image now revealed to her. She licks her lips before practically yanking the dress the rest of the way over my head and flinging it across the room when she sees the matching lace of my bra. Like the panties, it's a soft, antique white that looks like the purest version of depravity.

She seems honestly mesmerized as her hands glide up my quivering stomach to gently cup my breasts through the silky lace. Moaning loudly, her hips buck up beneath me so hard it nearly knocks me off balance, pushing my chest even further into the hands that are now kneading and squeezing relentlessly. I sigh, feeling like I have no idea which one of us is enjoying this more, but more than happy to call it a tie.

When she moves her hands around, fumbling for a moment with the clasp of my bra, I wrap my own arms around her, tugging insistently on her sweatshirt. She huffs slightly in annoyance at being distracted when she pulls away long enough whip it over her head before she reaches back to slide the straps of my bra down. The lace glides coolly across my skin as she pulls it away and quickly buries her face between my tits like a child greedily clutching at the toy of her dreams. I turn my attention to the sports bra covering her own chest, pulling it up and away while she continues to be mesmerized by the twins.

It's kind of amusing actually. Because yeah, I've got a really nice rack and all, but no one has ever been quite this excited by them who wasn't currently in the throes of puberty.

I'm not exactly complaining though, as she leans in again, this time planting wet kisses up and down the rise of my left breast before sucking my nipple into her hot mouth. I groan and shudder, my hips grinding into her in a way that is almost embarrassing.

I decide it's time to take some control then. I pull back, ignoring her pout as I set about pulling down her leggings and the simple white cotton thong she wears in one motion, adding them to the growing pile on the floor before nudging her legs far enough apart to settle myself between them.

Brittany's turned on. Like really turned on, in a way that I really can't imagine being faked. Or maybe I just don't want to. Either way, she's wet and right now it's for me. I glance up at her face once, just because it's the polite thing to do before burying your face between someone's legs. She's staring at me like if I don't do it, she might grab me and mash my face there herself. Works like a bitch for me.

I lean forward, mouth open and ready to pounce when reality comes crashing in on me again. What I'm doing. Who I'm doing it with. And the very real dangers that come from this.

My brow furrows in consternation, because I never even thought about dental dams or anything like that and god-fucking-dammit, I should have. I can smell her now, though, and it's like the strongest fucking aphrodisiac in the world. I glance up at her helplessly and her brows are drawn as she watches me. I really don't need to come away from this with any gifts that keep on giving.

"I'm clean." She whispers, sounding embarrassed. "And careful." I think there's an unspoken 'as a rule' in there somewhere because this certainly doesn't qualify. "I promise."

I'm just going to have to blame it on the fact that even naked, spread open and literally fucking glistening in front of me she still somehow manages to look innocent, because my mouth is watering and I just can't fucking help myself. I lean down and slide my tongue through her wetness before I can talk myself out of this completely.

And yeah, my own panties? They're pretty much a complete goner now, and I really don't think I've ever been this wet in my whole life.

She writhes and moans as I lick and savor ever bit of her, because dammit, if you're going to do something you know might be bad for you, you might as well enjoy the hell out of it. Am I right?

I slide one finger inside her, almost surprised by how tightly her body grips it and it's only a few coordinated thrusts before her whole body arches off the bed, clutching and twitching and flooding my senses while I ride the wave, pull my mouth away, slide in another finger and keep up an insistent pace. Because even though she just came, I have an overwhelming urge to see that again. She's gasping, eyes wide as I crawl part way up her body for leverage and thrust into her with everything I can muster. She nearly screams, clawing at my shoulders and back, one hand I'm pretty sure leaving marks on my ass as she urges me into her. I've never seen someone lose control like this, and I sure as hell have never gone along for the ride. But one of her jerking thighs slams up between my legs, accidentally or not, and just like that I'm rubbing myself as furiously as I'm pumping her and when I feel her body balloon out for a breathless moment before squeezing my fingers to an almost painful halt, she arches and screams into my ear, the spasms of her body jerking me firmly over the edge with her, my own cries buried wetly in her neck as I twitch helplessly for a few more minutes before collapsing next to her.

"Wow." She huffs after a few breathless moments, and I can't help but giggle into her neck, ridiculously pleased with myself and feeling no particular urge to move. She seems to agree because her arms only tighten around me as we shuffle into a more comfortable position and promptly pass out.


	6. Chapter 6

_Okay, you guys win. I might not be able to come back later on tonight, since there's something else I'm working on, so double update it is. I started to post them both together in the first place, so oh well, here you go. _

_As for the reviews, all I can say (and this is probably as much as I will) is that trying to figure out what exactly is going on with Brittany is definitely asking the right question...  
_

* * *

When I wake up a few hours later, my skin is sweaty where it has been pressed up against her. I groan as I practically have to peel myself off her body and plop over on my back. She hums softly and rolls over to press herself against my side, and I can't help but smile, because she's clearly a snuggler. But that thought quickly leads to several other, much more unpleasant, ones. Because I don't really know anything about this girl. For all I know, she could be in a relationship with someone who happens to be understanding about her profession, that thought makes me frown because I can't even imagine being able to deal with that kind of thing.

On the other hand, she could just be like this with any.. clients?.. she feels comfortable with. I realize pretty quickly I'm going to have to figure out a way to become more comfortable with this. Though I don't know if spending more time with her is going to make that easier, or harder. I don't even know if it's okay to ask her about any of this. What is allowed and what is going too far into her privacy?

"Deep thoughts." She murmurs into my shoulder, letting her fingers slide up and trace over my face to the furrows in my brow. "You okay?"

I take a deep breath and try to push away any darker thoughts.

"Yeah." I sigh, burying my nose into the top of her head, breathing in a soft floral kind of scent.

"Do you want me to go?" She asks softly. "It's really okay if you do, I understand."

Damn, I wasn't even thinking about that, and now I feel like an idiot because I should have. "Um.." I clear my throat and she shifts away from me, apparently taking that for a yes. Shit. "If you need to go, I get it, but if you don't.. um.. that's cool too. I wouldn't.. I mean.. I'd like you to stay."

Brittany turns toward me as I taper off, her profile lit up by the ever-present neon of the city filtering through my window. I think she's trying to get a read on my face to find out if I mean it or not, so I let her see the honesty in my eyes, suddenly feeling way more naked than I did just because I didn't have any clothes on.

I see a slight smile dance around the edges of her mouth before she moves again, this time sliding her body up and straddling my hips. I suck in a surprised breath as a jolt of arousal pulses through me. It's ridiculous how easily this girl turns me on.

"Got a second wind?" A sexy grin covers Brittany's face now. Even with no makeup, eyes sleepy, hair a little wild, her pale skin almost shimmering in the filtered light, I have the fleeting thought that she may be the sexiest person I've ever seen in my life. Oh man, I'm just in so fucking much trouble here.

But do I really care about that right now? She shifts her hips, her weight pressing down on my crotch. Um no, I don't really think I do.

I reach out to grab her hips and the grin on her face gets a little broader.

Then she's kissing me again, and I can't do anything but open up and let it happen. This wasn't exactly what I meant when I said she could stay, but it's not like I'm going to argue. She winds me up so fast I might as well be on a string, and soon I'm reaching around to clutch at her fabulous ass, my hips pushing up into her restlessly. Seriously, would it be rude to ask what kind of workouts she does, just to know something, anything, about her?

And either she's the greatest method actress ever, or she's getting really turned on again too. Because I can feel her getting wet as she grinds down into me.

When she slides her lips off of mine, trailing a lazy path toward my ear, she murmurs, "Do you have anything we can play with?"

I blink a few times, way too turned on to be able to make sense of what she's asking at first. But then she leans back and raises her brows meaningfully as she presses down against me. I can tell by the glint in her eyes she knows damn well that I do, and she's practically daring me to admit it. The promise of all sorts of naughty pleasures is dancing in her eyes. Finally I just squeeze my eyes shut and cover them with one hand, pointing toward my nightstand with the other and a sigh of defeat.

"Bottom drawer," I mutter.

My cheeks feel like they are blazing hot, but Brittany just gives and excited little hop that makes my whole body jerk underneath her. I peek out from between my fingers to watch as she scampers over to the edge of my huge mattress and just leans over, her bare ass up high in the air, one leg lifted up behind her for balance as she hangs head first over the side. And yeah, that image is going to stay with me for a while. I hear little squeals of joy accompanying the sounds of her rummaging through my somewhat extensive collection of toys.

Hey, a girl's gotta keep herself entertained somehow.

When she scoots back, she's holding up the harness to my strap-on above her triumphantly and I can only shake my head and laugh. Like a kid excited to play with her new toy, she flops quickly onto her back and slides the leather up around her waist, the pink, sparkly attachment (don't judge me) rising up from her crotch suddenly like the x-rated version of Pinocchio.

The naughty glimmer in her eyes makes the flush in my cheeks spread all the way down into my chest.

"How do you want it?" My eyes slide down to her new addition a little nervously, because my policy is normally that it's better to give than to receive. But hey, when a girl looks at you like she wants to pound you through the mattress, it's not like I've got anything to complain about. When I hesitate too long she seems to decide she should make the decision for me, because she crawls over on her knees and grabs hold of my calf, urging it upward. "Flip over."

I'm not sure why she even bothers to say it, when she's pretty much doing it for me, pressing my leg over until I'm on my stomach and then grabbing my waist to hoist my ass in the air for her gentle attentions. Or not so gentle, I guess I'm about to find out.

Before I can even really get nervous, her tongue buries itself between my legs and I gasp into the bedspread where my face is still planted. My moans and whimpers are muffled until I have to turn my head to the side to gasp for breath. It doesn't take her long to have me clawing at the blanket and pushing my ass up for her like a bitch in heat ready to be mounted.

When she pulls away to do just that, I have the fleeing thought that I've never been in bed with someone who had this kind of confidence or comfort with sex. And then all thought pretty much stops, because I feel the pressure of her pushing into me and my body being stretched in ways it hasn't in a really, really, _really_ long time. I feel her hands smoothing up and down my sides, petting down over my ass as she soothes me. Long finger slide around to rub at my already tender flesh, coaxing my body to open up for her and then setting her hips into a slow, sensual rhythm as it does.

My eyes roll back in my head, and when she begins to slide kisses up and down my arching spine I realize that by now my entire body is an erogenous zone, because every touch, every brush of her hair against my skin, every slap of her thighs against mine only winds me up higher until I'm literally screaming out with every thrust. When I come, it's almost blinding, my whole body bowing and convulsing under her in a way that's a little scary.

She follows my body down, pressed against my back while I struggle to catch my breath. Our little friend is still inside of me and my body can't seem to help a few random, erratic jerks at the feeling of it.

When Brittany urges me back over onto my back, still staying inside of me, I think for a moment she must be kidding.

But then, she leans down to kiss me softly, her body pressed flush into mine inside and out and I let out what feels like an almost pathetic whimper. My legs find their way around her back, though, and I she hums happily into the kiss when she feels it. Letting go of whatever doubts or reservations I have for the moment, I just wrap myself around her, opening my mouth to the explorations of her tongue and my body to the slow rocking that soon enough turns into plunging once again. Before I know it, my hands are clamped firmly on her ass, urging every thrust until our bodies are smacking together in a way that should be really painful, and I'm sure I'm going to feel tomorrow, but at the moment feels like nothing less than heaven.

The cries and whimpers that escape from her I swear I can almost taste on her tongue as I stroke it with mine. I can feel her winding up again this time and part of me doesn't even care if I come again because all I want is to feel her come completely apart for me this time. I bring one hand around, pushing my palm as hard as I can against the harness and she cries out, slamming her body into mine so hard I slide into the headboard, before she grows stiff, biting at my shoulder as she just grinds into me, finding friction with the hard leather and causing another surprising release for me from the motion as well.

When she collapses on top of me this time I keep myself wrapped around her, stroking her back and hair and trying not to think about anything beyond the fact that this is the most amazing sex I've ever had.

The 'what the fuck am I doing?' moment doesn't happen until I wake up again, this time the harsh light of day shining down on us in bed together. She really is a cuddler, because once again our skin is pretty much glued together and sweaty. When I shift I feel the soreness start to kick in and wonder how much fun my workout is going to be this afternoon. I start pondering whether I'm supposed to offer her breakfast or not and after a few minutes of worrying, I decide that I've got to stop thinking about it like this. Whatever else is true, she's a person. And a sweet person, who has gone out of her way to make me feel wonderful, so I just need to focus on that and hope that I can still manage to keep all this in perspective.

And yes, I know already I'm going to fail hopelessly at that, but I can't bring myself to share my body with someone and then treat it like a business transaction. Even if that's what it is.

If I'm paying for a fantasy, I might as well go with it.

She barely stirs when I unpeel myself and head to the bathroom. I putter around the kitchen, trying to put together something that resembles a decent breakfast. By the time I hear her moving around, I've settled on an omelet with chorizo and Nutella covered toast. She looks surprised when she sees the two plates I've set out for us, sitting in the chair a little gingerly as though she's waiting for a punchline. I frown at the look she gives me, because I can't really read it. She looks shy and a little nervous, and I can't really understand why the same girl who fucked me for the first time on this table like she owned it would suddenly be worried about eating a meal here now. I try to figure out if I'm making her uncomfortable or something, but I don't think that's it.

I want to ask her but then I can't decide whether even that would be intrusive, or somehow making it worse. Instead I offer her some juice.

Brittany gives me a sweet peck on the cheek before she heads out the door, though she does manage to grab my ass at the same time. When I go to get dressed, I find she's carefully cleaned and replaced the toy we used and even made the bed.

I have no idea what to think about any of this, so I head toward the shower and get ready to start my day. It's not until I'm brushing my teeth that I realize I don't even have Brittany's phone number to set up another… date? Is that the right word for it? Either way, I groan, knowing that means I'm going to have to ask Kurt to set it up again and at the rate we're going I'm going to have to buy him a condo in Maui.

Oh well, what the hell. It's not like I can't afford it.


	7. Chapter 7

_You guys are amazing, thanks so much for letting me know what you think. _

* * *

As it turns out, my apology to Rachel comes in the form of tickets to see Annie. I'm pretty sure she wants to see it to live out her vicarious childhood fantasies, but whatever. She's bubbly and excited. We even get Pap'd on the street outside the theater, and I think that makes her night even more than the show. She runs after the photographer to make sure he spells her name correctly and the look he gives me in response is priceless.

I take her to Spago afterward and that's the first time the issue of Brittany finally makes an appearance in our evening. The way she starts makes me sure she's been waiting all night for the right time to bring it up.

"So, I.. um.. I heard you had another… meeting with Brittany." She won't meet my eyes and it seems almost strange to me all of a sudden the way she uses Brittany's name so easily, like she's more familiar with her than she would have any reason to be. That thought makes me shift a little in discomfort, because only when she's totally smashed has Rachel ever expressed any interest in another girl. And I can't imagine Finn would be okay with something like that. I try to put the thought out of my head, even though it only reminds me that I probably don't want to know what Brittany does when she's not spending time with me. The logical part of my brain decides that maybe she's been talking to Kurt, who more than likely has been talking to Brittany.

I don't respond, but settle for a nice cold glare. I enjoy the way it makes her squirm, because lately she's pretty much been immune to most of my bad attitude. It makes me nostalgic for high school.

"I just.. I was wondering how that was going. I mean, is it.. are you okay with the way things are?"

"You're not looking for the gory details, are you Berry? Because I didn't think that was your thing."

She gasps and her face goes a vivid and satisfying shade of red.

"N..N..No! Of course, I'm not.. no. I just, I mean, I know that things were uncomfortable and I was wondering if you two.. um.. worked everything out?" Despite her protests, Rachel is entirely too interested in this subject. I wonder now just how far her little romantic fantasy of Brittany and I getting together has gone. There's a part of me that really does want to ask how she came to send Brittany over to my place for what she expected to be a Disney-rated evening, but then again, another part of me thinks I might be better off not knowing.

I had a really good time with Brittany, and then I had a fucking amazing time under her. I can't help but worry that something in the shifty-eyed glances I'm getting from Rachel is going to upset that delicate balance we only just started to find. Being subtle or discreet is not exactly Rachel's strong suit.

My arms come up to wrap around my chest as I send another glare at Rachel. When I don't respond, she tries again.

"Are you.. I mean, do you think you are going to be seeing her again?"

"You're seriously starting to creep me out with this, you know that, right?"

She huffs in frustration. "Come on, Santana, you're my friend, I just want to know what's going on with you."

That would be a trick, even I don't really know what's going on with me.

"I don't know, yeah I guess I am." That's a total lie, I've already started planning our next night in my head.

"Do you… I mean, do you like her? If she wasn't.. y'know.. do you think you would still be interested in her?"

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, something inside of me shying away from really considering her question. What good would it do me to think like that? All I'm going to do is screw this whole thing up before it has a chance to get started if I can't respect that this is what she does for a living and just accept it at that. If I start playing what if in Rachel's little romantic fantasies… Well, I don't think anything good can come from that.

Rachel's staring at me a little too intensely, waiting for an answer I don't think I can really give her.

"We have fun." I shrug, wondering what could I actually offer her if things were different. The truth is I'm probably more of a whore than Brittany could ever be, selling a fantasy version of myself to the masses and hiding what's real down deep inside. It's hard to even decide what really matters in my life anymore, beyond keeping up the image of myself that has been carefully crafted for public consumption. That's how I wound up in this mess in the first place. And the truth is, there's a part of me that might even feel comfortable with Brittany because, even though I'm not entirely sure what's going on with her, at least she's not trying to bullshit me, or push me into something public I'm not ready for. And it's not like she's not getting something out of it, too. If she didn't seem to really enjoy the time we spend together, I doubt I could either.

Maybe Brittany can somehow get what that's like more than most people could.

"It's probably better that things are the way they are." I figure that's as close to the truth as I am willing to venture right now.

Rachel seems disappointed in my answer. She gives me a sad, wistful little smile and I roll my eyes. I ask her about her workshop, because I want to change the subject and I know that's the one topic I know she won't be able to resist. It works, and soon enough I can sit back and enjoy her dramatic outbursts, "It's like Wicked meets Xanadu! It's going to be AMAZING, Santana!"_, _ just happy to have my friend back.

To say Kurt is annoyed with me when I almost sheepishly ask him to set up another date with Brittany is a massive understatement. I finally put a stop to a five minute long lecture with the suggestion that if he's so tense, maybe he should think about getting some too. He sputters for a few minutes in horror before settling in to a general annoyance with me. But that's okay, he does actually get paid for putting up with being annoyed with me, so in the end he agrees with a huff, but only after making it clear that I need to figure out how to schedule my own "dates", even doing air quotes as he says it, and then leaves with a dramatic flair Rachel would be proud of. I watch him go fondly, because somehow in all this he's become almost like a brother to me and I know I really do owe him that vacation he wants. I make a mental note to look into what hotel he might find the hottest guys in Maui at before turning my attention to my own messed up romantic aspirations.

I realize very quickly, I can't bring myself to wait a full week before seeing her again. No, I'm not going to analyze that.

I decide to beg out of one of the parties I'm supposed to attend and organize things for Thursday night. I'm supposed to start shooting my oh so glittery video on Friday and I tell Kurt I need a night in to relax and get ready. I assume he adds the air quotes in his head this time. Luckily that's not the party that's actually being thrown for me, so I can get away with it. Sometimes it's good to be a bitch.

Around six on Thursday I get a text from Kurt. Well, it's a forwarded text from Brittany. She says she's running a little late and asks if that's okay.

I feel strangely nervous as I type back a reply, deciding that I'm being ridiculous. If this girl has access to my toy drawer, my phone number shouldn't be a big deal. I tell her it's fine, and ask if she still wants to get together. I can't think of a subtle way to ask her if she's got a more… pressing engagement, but she responds almost immediately.

_Yes! I really really do, I'm sooo sorry. :(  
_

And then a moment later she adds: _It's really hard to get a taxi in midtown right now, and the subway takes forever. I'll make it up to you, I promise. ;) _

I frown a little bit at the thought of that being the hold up. After a deep breath, I press the dial icon and do my best to ignore the fluttering in my belly as the phone rings.

"Hello?" She sounds flustered.

"Hi, Brittany."

"Oh my god, Santana! I'm so sorry! I promise I'm…"

"Brittany." I say it softly, having learned in dealing with hysterical fans that calmness in the face of a full on freak out is usually the way to go.

"Yeah?" She replies, tentatively.

"Where are you, exactly?"

She pauses then gives me a few street names in midtown Manhattan and I'm already firing off another text before I even respond. "Okay, now don't take this the wrong way, but what are you wearing?"

A nervous, fluttery laugh greets me and she says, "Um, yoga pants, a sweatshirt and a blue coat? I really thought I'd have the chance to change this time, if…"

"Brittany." I say again and she seems to calm down, "Just stay where you are, my driver isn't too far from there, I'm sending him to pick you up."

I hear a gasp and can't help but smile, "You really don't have to do that! I can.."

"It's okay, I'm sure he's bored anyway. I had him running my manager around this afternoon so he would have something to do, since I didn't get out today." I cringe at the way I almost just admitted I've been hanging around all day waiting for the chance to see her.

"Oh, well.. If you're sure…"

"I am, just stay put, he's on his way already."

"Okay, umm, thank you." It seems so strange how she can go from teasing sex goddess to shy little girl so quickly, I guess I can only hope the journey back to sex goddess is just as quick. Or then again, maybe not. That little girl seems like she's interesting. I wonder if I'm going to get the chance to get to know her, too.

"It's no problem, really. I sent a couple of texts."

"It's the thought that counts," she insists and I find it a little surreal that someone is actually accusing me of being thoughtful. Most people who know me would just say I'm trying to get my mack on as quickly as possible. I find myself wishing she was right and they would be wrong, but it's not like I'm in the habit of lying to myself.

When the knock comes on my door, I have to force myself to walk slowly toward it and not bound like a schoolgirl who has been preening for her first boyfriend. What was I saying about lying to myself? Yeah, nevermind.

When I open it, I have to pretend my first thought isn't that her eyes are the color of the sky on a perfect summer day.

I'm really just so, so screwed here.

But oh, well, at least it's both literal and figurative, because before I know it I'm kissing her again. She gives a small murmur of surprise but drops her bag and wraps her arms around me before we even manage to kick the door closed completely. And then she's picking me up again, which is becoming a habit I totally approve of, and heading back toward my bedroom. I manage to keep my senses enough to grab the doorframe before we enter and she leans back to look at me in confusion, her cheeks are already red and flushed, I can't help but lean in to kiss her softly again as I mutter, "Bathroom."

This gets me a raised eyebrow, and I decide pretty quickly I don't want to know whatever just ran through her mind. Instead I wait until she puts me down and tug her toward the bathroom, to see the surprise I have ready for us, even though I'm suddenly feeling a little awkward about it, wondering if this was a much better idea in my head. The candlelit falls on the shifting bubbles, and I take a step to turn on the water jets under the surface of the tub. Because okay, this might be another of my indulgences.

Brittany smiles at me, her eyes looking kind of misty in the dim, steamy light and it hits me how over the top romantic this is and whether she might actually have a problem with that. But she's stripping off her clothes a moment later and I try to let the thought go and appreciate the view, noticing once again that she looks like she's just come from a workout instead of something, well, work related. Well, unless she's got a regular with a really specific fetish or something, and I really don't want to think about that. She's got a spandex tank top under her sweatshirt and cute little white boyshorts under her yoga pants.

"Are you coming?" She throws the words at me coyly.

Probably pretty soon, yeah. I don't actually say that, even though we both seem to be thinking it. And before I can come up with a more dignified, or at least more clever, response, she's moved forward and decided to take on the job of stripping me down herself. I can't really bring myself to complain about that.


	8. Chapter 8

_Okay, so here's a little bit longer chapter (I couldn't bring myself to break it up), with maybe a little more insight into Brittany..._

_Hope you like it. The reviews are still blowing my mind. I love reading all the theories.  
_

* * *

I also can't really complain about the fact that she is apparently part fish and can hold her breath for ridiculous lengths of time. Or about the way she looks, her head thrown back, wet hair tickling my knees as she straddles my lap and comes with my hand buried between her legs.

My own legs are a little wobbly as we make our way to the dining room in bathrobes, giggling like girls on a sleepover, and enjoy the fish I cooked earlier and left to stay warm in the oven.

I have to stop myself several times from asking her more about herself, what she's been up today (I probably don't want to know), or what dreams brought her to the big city. This is her job and I don't have the right to be nosy. I certainly understand the need to keep some distance with people who don't really know you but want access to every detail of your life. I would never want to make her feel like that.

She seems to have no problem asking me about myself, however, even though I have a feeling she already has the fan-friendly version of most of my life story. She doesn't have to ask what a Cheerio is, or what I sang when my Glee club killed it at Nationals my senior year. Even my inner narcissist has started to complain about being the constant topic of conversation, so finally I try to pick a question that will let me finally get to know her a little bit better without prying too much about her private live.

"Where did you go to school?" That's safe, right?

"Oh," she flushes slightly, "we were home schooled. My sister and I. My mom is an artist and my dad worked on a cruise ship. So they just decided it was easier to take care of it themselves. And plus my mom likes to complain about the pedagogy of misogyny taught in the public school system."

I blink. Then blink again, trying to decipher the words that she rambles off so casually. I think I understood most of them, and if I did, her mom probably had a point.

"Anyway, they used to pay some of the performers to teach us dance a couple of nights a week and eventually I got good enough to be a part of their show. They told me New York was the place you had to be if you wanted to be a serious dancer, so here I am." She smiles brightly before devouring another mouthful.

The news rocks me a little bit. She's a dancer? Is she any good? I'm literally just about to shoot a video that could make the career of any dancer that was in it. If I asked, I'm sure she could be featured in it.

But then why would I be asking? Would that make her feel like I'm trying to buy her whole life, to help her out in exchange for her being my own personal.. what? No word that's coming to mind is really one I want to consider. And if I helped her, would she think I expected something like that? Would she be right? How did a dancer even wind up in this kind of situation?

I don't have any right to ask her that. I really don't. But she hasn't seemed to shy away from any questions so far. I wage a silent battle inside myself before my need to know overpowers my caution.

"So.. um.. if you came here to dance, then how did you…?" I gesture vaguely, not sure if there's a polite way to phrase it.

"Wind up with Sue?" She smiles sadly, while I give a sheepish nod. "When I first came to town, I was staying with one of the dancers I knew from the ship. He was really sweet, and told me I could sleep on his couch for as long as I wanted. But then he got a tour and was going to let go of his sublet, and I didn't really have anywhere to stay. I hadn't found a job that paid enough for my own place. So a few weeks before he left, he gave me a phone number. Said that he had worked for her a few years back, when he first got to town, because his Mom and Dad had thrown him out when they caught him in bed with a quarterback." She shrugged, looking down into her plate, "Sue kind of specializes helping out like that. She says it works out for her anyway, because we have a short shelf life and most have moved on by the time she'd be ready to kick them out anyway. And, how does she put it?" She lowers her voice, doing a fair impression of the woman, "There's never any shortage of talentless waifs who and are just starting to realize that you can't live on the delusions of grandeur they were spoon fed by Mommy and Daddy in a desperate attempt to convince themselves that their own pathetic existence had some type of meaning."

I suck in a sharp breath, thinking of all the professional looking headshots she had sent me. Including the one of Brittany. I feel a little sick.

"But, it all works out. Only the ones who can handle it stay on for a while. And everyone knows when it's time to move on."

I find myself suddenly desperately hoping that Brittany thinks it's time for her to move on. She has got to know I can help her. It'd be awful damn nice for my own fame to be put to use for something worthwhile for a change. I clear my throat, trying to figure out how to phrase what I want to say.

"Umm.. you know…if you wanted, I could…"

She pops up suddenly like something shocked her chair and it startles me into silence.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't realize it was so late and I've got.. um.. somewhere I've got to be." She turns quickly and starts gathering up her bags and things.

I frown a little as I follow her, because I have a feeling she knows what I was planning on offering and she's trying to avoid it. Somehow that thought is even more depressing. Why wouldn't she want me to help her?

I follow her to the door feeling like a petulant child and can only accept the quick kiss she gives me before disappearing out the door in a flurry of blonde hair.

It's not until I close the door again I realize I didn't even get the chance to set up another night with her. I kick the door a little too hard before I turn to clean up the kitchen.

The next few days are busy enough to try and distract myself, video shoots are always a great excuse to feel like you're playing in your mom's makeup and dancing around in your bedroom mirror. By the second day, you become officially sick of the song though, and depressed by the thought of how many times you're going to have to sing it.

The final day of the shoot starts way too damn early on a Saturday and by the time we're through, all I can think about is a hot bath never, ever hearing a single note of that damn song again.

As I climb into my car for the ride home, I skim through messages from Kurt telling me that my producers want my final choices for the upcoming album, attaching all the files so I don't have the excuse of not being able to find them. I hate trying to pick songs, because the ones I really like are the ones that make the producers frown and executives talk about target demographics.

"Miss Lopez?"

I look up quickly, because while my driver is a nice guy, he rarely wants to chat. But instead of a question I see him pointing over toward the sidewalk. And when I follow his look, I see Brittany, in all her colorful glory, making her way through the crowded Manhattan streets. I chew my lip for a quick second before I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror, looking back so I don't lose sight of her. He seems to take this as a directive (I'm thinking the Christmas bonus is going to be good this year) and makes his way toward the nearest parking spot in a way that still honestly scares the crap out of me just a little bit. Brittany seems to be heading toward the subway entrance and I roll down the window and yell her name before she moves too far away, or I can second guess myself.

She stops and turns with a curious look in her eyes, that turns into a smile when she sees me peeking out the window.

"Hey!" She bumps and jostles her way over to the curb and leans down toward me.

I suddenly feel a little bit like I'm some asshole trying to pick her up on a street corner, but I haven't seen her in what feels like too long and yeah, so maybe I'm a little emotionally needy. "Do you need a ride or anything?"

She tilts her head, looking at me for a moment like she's trying to figure out who she is looking at. I shift uncomfortably, because I'm not entirely sure I want to know who that might be.

"Are you sure you're not headed somewhere important?" I realize suddenly why she's staring.

"I'm sure. Don't let the clown makeup fool you. I was so ready to escape from the set I didn't take a shower, yet." She laughs and leans further into the window. "My only plans for the rest of the day include deciding what kind of pizza I want."

"Well, I'd hate to miss such an important decision. But, I have to get to the East Village, and I know that's probably out of your way, even in the hunt for great pizza."

"Nowhere is too far to go in the hunt for great pizza." I smile and scoot back to open the door invitingly.

Brittany pauses for a moment before she climbs in, tossing her bag into the floorboard and unwrapping a bright orange scarf from around her neck.

It hits me suddenly that I may be taking her to, or from, the type of meeting I try desperately not to think about. But she's still in what looks more like dance clothes so I'm just going to assume it's something like that for the sake of my sanity.

"So what kind of set was it?"

I chuckle and shrug. "New video."

"Oooh!" Her eyes get that excited sparkle. "That's so awesome, I can't wait to see it! What's the song?"

"It's.. um.. It's called Glitter Pop."

I push up my sleeves to show her the expanse of glitter they've been dousing me with for three days now. I seriously think I'm going to be finding glitter in various orifices for at least a couple of weeks.

She gets that curious head tilt again. "That sounds…"

"…silly?" I finish for her. "That would be correct."

"I was going to say exciting." Brittany finishes kindly, and I roll my eyes.

"Trust me, silly is a better description."

"You don't like your own song?"

"It wasn't my first choice for the next single." I must be tired because that's more than I would usually admit out loud without an abundance of alcohol in my system.

"Well then, what was your first choice?"

I stare at her for a minute, chewing my lip before I make my decision. I pick up my phone searching for a moment before I find the file and play it. It's a slow, bluesy ballad that I co-wrote with Holly, an old friend and one time substitute music teacher who was the first one to urge me to put the thoughts and feelings into lyrics that I couldn't seem to express any other way.

Leaning back against the headrest again, I let it play, enjoying the way the slow, sultry music sponges away thoughts about glitter.

"I love it." Brittany breathes quietly and I smile. "That sounds like stuff from _Mirror, Mirror_."

Smirking I roll my head toward her, "Yeah, that's pretty much exactly why everyone else hates it. They talk about being stuck in a rut and repeating myself." I always have such mixed feelings about my first album. In some ways, it didn't really sound like me, either. Or not the way I wanted it to. Even the title song itself was in the end just another version of smoke and glitter, designed for the masses. It bore only a passing resemblance to the song a lonely sixteen year old wrote about wanting to be seen for who she was.

"But no!" Her voice is surprisingly passionate. "It's deeper. Like, sadder, I guess, but I think people would love this."

I smile sadly, "Not enough people." I sigh. "Or not the right people. It's 'too mature' for my target audience. Or so they tell me."

"Maybe they underestimate your audience." She says softly. And even though I'm sure she's wrong, the fact that she believes it so completely somehow matters more.

I sold out my musical soul so long ago, it's almost startling to be reminded that it's still in there somewhere.

I can't bring myself to disagree with her, so I settle for leaning back again, closing my eyes, and just enjoying the pop tracks for the mindless fun that they are.

When I feel a hand on my knee, it makes me jump a little bit. I pop my eyes open to find her sitting next to me, eyes trained forward like she's watching the traffic around us. I let myself relax, knowing that she just seems to be a very touchy-feely sort of person. That is, until the touchy turns a little more into feely and the hand starts travelling slowly, but very steadily, up my thigh. And oh god, my life has become a Fresh Prince song.

Even that thought pushes away when her hand pushes up the edges of my skirt. Fingers tease along my sensitive inner thighs. I stare forward, wondering if my driver can see that far down when he glances in the mirror.

Brittany doesn't seem to think so, or apparently doesn't care, because a few moments later I feel her fingertips dance along the edge of my panties and I have to stifle a gasp. My eyes close then, because I can't think about anything else other than trying to control my reaction to the way she's touching me. I'm literally trembling with the effort it takes to keep quiet and still.

Because, I really don't want her stop and I'm not sure what I'm going to do if she doesn't.

I can feel the heat on my face as her fingertips dip just under the crotch of my panties. Every breath is suddenly a slow, shuddering gasp. I clench my jaw as tightly as I can to try and bite back any noise.

Her touches brushes lightly against me, and I feel myself spasm against her, the only reaction I can't control. I feel like my body is reaching for her. She skims through the evidence of my body's reaction to her, teasing up to circle slowly and I can't even let myself breathe, because I know I wouldn't be able to control the noise that came with it any more than I can control the jerk of my hips.

I feel her free hand settle on my own, clenched tightly into a fist on the seat next to me. I squeeze my eyes shut as hard as I can, because I honestly don't think I can take any more stimulation without losing it completely. But instead of adding to my torture, she picks up my hand and sets it on the small console nestled into the cushions of the seat and then pats me encouragingly. It takes a long moment for my thoroughly distracted mind to finally catch up with what she's asking, but then I get it. My fingers find the button that raises the glass, giving us some privacy. I punch it before I can think of the thousand and one reasons why I shouldn't.

Eyes still closed I hear the low whine of the glass as it creeps upward, blocking out my driver and the rest of the world.

I don't have to guess when it's finally closed, because Brittany jerks her hand free from my underwear only long enough to grab my hips and spin me toward her, until I'm laying back on the seat with my head propped awkwardly against the door. My eyes pop open just in time to see her crawl on top of me and shove her hand unceremoniously past my panties again, this time shoving deep inside of me with two fingers that don't even pause before they start pumping into me. I can only stare at her, my mouth gaped open in surprise while some part of my mind still tries to control the noises that come from my chest.

There's a quick beat to the song playing now and she matches it, consciously or not, like a dance she's leading me on masterfully and holy fuck, I know some part of me is going to think of this every single time I have to sing it for the rest of my life.

My hips find her rhythm easily enough and only the soft gasps and whines escape through my desperate attempts to control them. She leans up further and buries her tongue in my mouth, swallowing the sounds and moaning softly back into me. It's like a weird kind of conversation, my needy whimpers met by low, growly kind of sounds, the helpless lurching of my hips met by the steady, pounding thrusts of her whole body against me.

It takes me by surprise when I come with a blinding rush. My body arches so hard I lift us both completely off the seat and my legs tremble violently as it comes and goes with the suddenness of a storm.

And then there's only silence, broken up by way we both pant softly into each other's ears. I look down to realize my phone has fallen into the floorboard and popped its battery out, and look up to see the bustle of the city passing by our window, completely uncaring that I just came harder than I've ever come in my entire life.

After another moment, it hits me why the people seem so close. Because the car has come to a stop, god only knows how long ago. I bang my head back against the door intentionally, maybe trying to knock some sense into myself. But when I look up at Brittany, she's got that mischievous smirk and I can't help but laugh in response. She gives me a quick kiss then helps drag me back upright, climbing back onto the seat as if sitting there will make us look any less like we just had sex in the middle of the street in the middle of the day.

I seriously have got to be just losing my mind.

"Um, well, thanks for the ride." I have no idea how she can say that shyly after what she just did to me, because really I should probably be thanking her for the ride.

"It was my pleasure." I say, sounding hoarse and flustered.

Brittany giggles. "Trust me, it was mine too."

She reaches down to grab her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she edges toward the door. I reach for her suddenly, before I can stop myself.

"Hey, wait.. I was wondering.. do you want to maybe come over tomorrow night?" I chew my lip, trying to think of the most amazing night I can plan for us.

I freeze suddenly at her reaction. She looks.. guilty. And won't meet my eyes.

"Um…" she clears her throat, sliding a few unruly strands of hair behind her ear, "I can't tomorrow. I'm really sorry."

"Oh." I feel like someone just dumped a bucket of ice cold reality down my back. _Oh. _ Right, of course. Because I am such a complete and utter idiot. Of course she wouldn't have every night free for me, when she's got other.. business to take care of.

Now I know I'm going to be sick.

Brittany gives me one last apologetic smile before reaching over to peck me on my cheek. "Raincheck, though?"

I force a smile with the same kind of willpower I was using a few moments ago to keep quiet.

"Sure."

With one last worried look, she scoots her way out the door and waves as she checks her watch and disappears into the swarm of people.

I feel the wetness on my cheeks before I realize that I'm crying. After a few minutes, there is a soft ding before my driver's voice filters through the speaker.

"Did you decide on your dinner Ms. Lopez?" He asks, sounding polite and professional.

"Take me home." I say quietly. I'm pretty sure I couldn't eat now, anyway.


	9. Chapter 9

_I'm still blown away by the response to this. I'm excited to see the response to the next few chapters in particular. Thanks again for those who take the time to let me know what you are thinking and hanging in there as the story develops. _

* * *

After almost a full day of sulking, I finally give up and call Rachel, thinking maybe I can at least get lost in all her drama long enough to forget about my own.

I get turned down again, though. Rachel's workshop got a couple of new investors and it seems like they are indeed going to be headed to Broadway in a few months. It sounds like she's on some kind of three day party and schmoozing binge.

Hanging up with a sigh, I call to have some flowers delivered to congratulate her. I find myself wandering over to my bookshelf and wiping some dust off of my Grammys. That turns into dusting the whole shelf, which turns into a full on spring cleaning of my apartment. I sometimes have had people come in and clean for me, but I am never really comfortable with having some stranger having the chance to go through my personal belongings. Because hey, there's nothing like finding out your panties are being sold on e-bay to make a girl paranoid. And creeped out. My Abuela always said that cleaning was good for the soul. Of course, that was probably so that she could guilt me into doing her housework. In the end, I'm sweaty and dirty, but somehow I do indeed feel a little better than I have in a while. I take a quick shower and crash for the night, trying my best to not think about what, or who, Brittany is doing.

I spend the next week finding reasons to be busy, and the week after being genuinely busy, as the interviews to prepare for my new release are set up and I spend ridiculously long hours in tiny rooms camped out in front of a microphone answering questions from every large and middle market DJ that can be bothered to come up with questions for me. More than half ask about a boyfriend, even though they were specifically requested not to. I give my standard giggling but vague, "Well, not right now…" answer, which always is good for letting people assume whatever they want to. It's not like they won't do that anyway, and I can at least tell myself it's not actually a lie if I just let them think whatever they want.

Sometimes I almost believe it.

One asks me to name my biggest crush at the moment. I close my eyes, imagining the soft blonde hair sliding against my skin. Then I open them and say the first thing that comes to mind, "Taylor Lautner."

By the time I'm leaving, Kurt has sent me a bitchy message asking why he's suddenly fielding questions about whether Taylor and I have been secretly dating. Because Taylor's people have already sent him a few messages offering to do a few paparazzi sightings with me if I'm interested. I sigh as I read over the message, feeling that heaviness in my chest again. I'm sure it would be really good publicity for the new release, but right now I just can't stomach the idea. I almost wish I had said Kristin Stewart instead. I have a dream that night that Taylor shows up at my door wearing a Mohawk and a letterman jacket. It's not exactly hard to decipher that one, and it leaves me in an feeling extremely bitchy for the day.

After I send Kurt a text telling him I'll be happy to go on a PR date with Taylor as soon as his voice changes, he sends one back later suggesting that I should relax and take a spa day, or maybe get laid, because it would do wonders for my mood.

I don't reply to that one, because I haven't been able to bring myself to contact Brittany again. I know I'm being ridiculous about the whole thing, because it's not like I didn't know the score going in, and it's certainly not her fault that getting a little icy blast of reality pretty much chilled me to the bone. I spent a few days even trying again to talk myself into calling up Sue again to set up a date with that girl who wore the leather pants, just so I could remind myself what all this was really supposed to be about.

But in the end, I'm apparently pathetic enough to be a one hooker kind of gal. God, I'm just so screwed here. In so many ways.

When the knock comes at my door that night, I know who it is before I even open it and spend a long moment of childishness as I stand in the doorway and consider just pretending like I'm not home.

She's wearing a god-awful rainbow cardigan and a tentative smile, carrying a pizza from Luigi's.

I kind of hate that my first thought is to wonder if Kurt sent her here to improve my mood.

"Hey," she shifts uncomfortably, "I thought maybe I could cash in that raincheck?"

Brittany holds the pizza out to me like a peace offering and I find myself just so totally confused. Because if this were anyone else, I would understand completely what is going on here. Everyone one of my senses that are in working order tell me that this is a girl who is really into me. My head knows better, though, like a tiny, annoying conscience in my ear that reminds me why all this was such a bad idea from the start. And cashing checks has everything to do with it.

But then I look into her eyes and I'm also reminded why I couldn't help myself. She sees my hesitation and her face falls a little, I take a deep breath that becomes a sigh.

"I… I.. I didn't mean…"

"I know, it's okay." I smile at her, because it is. Or at least, it's my problem and not hers. I knew what I was signing up for and I'm the one whose only fault it is that romantic options include Squeaky the Dog-faced boy and.. well, and someone else who might be interested in me for reasons other than my charming personality.

"That smells really good." I step back to let her in and she pauses a minute, looking at me.

"If you're busy or something, I could just leave it here with you. I probably should have texted first but I thought, hey it would be a really neat surprise. And since you've given me a lot of awesome surprises, I thought maybe it could be my turn." There's a small, evil part of myself that wants to say something cruel. Something to make her flinch and run away from me before I get any deeper into something that is only going to hurt in the end. But one look at her obscenely sweet face and I know I can't do it.

It's not until she's inside, setting the pizza on the table and going to the kitchen to hunt for plates that it hits me. I actually don't know what's going on here.

As far as I know, what happened in the car the other day wasn't actually a part of any arrangement that we seem to have. It's not like I have her on retainer or something. That I know of. I wonder if I should check into that.

I guess maybe it could have just been her way of thanking me for the ride, even though that thought makes my stomach roll a little bit.

But then, what is this? Is she just afraid of losing a big name client and doing a little bit of creative advertising? It's not like I haven't spent the past week trying my best to sell myself to whoever might be buying. That thought seems a little cynical, though, even for me. Maybe Kurt really did send her in an act of self-preservation.

As we settle down by the table where she nailed me so hard the floor still has scuffmarks, I realize maybe that time too was technically 'off the clock'. At least it was if I really do believe Rachel.

It's possible that maybe the lines are getting a little blurry for her, too. But, that's a really scary thing to let myself start to believe. Because the consequences of being wrong would be so fucking bad. And besides, she practically ran away the other day when I even hinted at maybe helping her find a different sort of job. If she had some kind of feelings for me, then wouldn't she want to quit and do something else? How would me helping her do that be any different from straight up paying for her services?

So, maybe I'm just over-thinking it. Maybe it's simply that she had a crush on me when she was a kid and now just gets off on being able to fuck me.

It's not like I have any right to complain about that, if it's the truth. It would make us equals in a really bizarre kind of way.

I sigh, grabbing a couple of beers and digging in to what is actually really delicious pizza. What the hell, if this is the bed I have made for myself, I might as well do a lot more than just sleep in it.

I realize after a few bites, that happen in relative silence that I don't really know how to start up a conversation. It's not like I'm going to ask her what she's been up to lately. And I don't really want to start whining about the woes of my sad, but extremely privileged, existence. The only other topic that has really been on my mind lately is sitting across from me casting me looks like she's trying to figure out what I'm thinking about.

We manage to polish off most of the pizza in a fairly comfortable silence. I keep glancing toward her, letting my eyes linger when I see she's looking away. I watch her carefully, wishing I had some way to know what she it is that she is actually thinking about. If I just asked, would she answer me? How have I gotten myself into a situation where I even have to ask myself that?

What if I were to casually bring up the fact that I'm going to be needing dancers for a few summer tour dates? Subtlety has never been my strong suit. But before I can work up the nerve, she finally catches me staring and starts licking at her greasy fingers with a wicked glimmer sparking in her eyes.

I guess I don't have to wonder what's on her mind, anymore.

Especially not when she reaches across to grab my hand, dragging me closer so she can lick my fingers next. My eyes roll back a little as every bit of my attention is focused on the hot tongue that's gliding across the sensitive pads of my fingers, before her lips close around two of them and I feel my skin tug as she sucks, still teasing me with the tip of her tongue.

I'm not going to be all politically correct and try to make excuses for where my mind just went. Besides, the way her eyes meet mine as she bobs her head gently, sliding back and forth over my fingers makes me reasonably certain she got there way ahead of me.

I'm okay with that.

Because then she's yanking me out of my chair and down toward the bedroom so fast I have to jog to stop my shoulder aching. When we get there, she pushes me toward the bed until I crash down unceremoniously on my ass. Without pausing she rounds the bed and heads for my toy drawer. I lean back on my hands, watching as she bends over to rummage through my toys and unabashedly enjoying the view.

When she pops up with the strap on I start wondering just how sore I'm going to be in the morning. Because I felt that last couple of rounds for a few days. She surprises me a little bit though, when she drops it on the bed and drops to her knees in front of me. I blink, feeling like I'm on some kind of wild fantasy ride. Like an X-rated Splash Mountain. I just need to hold on and enjoy it while it lasts.

Brittany reaches for the waistband of my sweats and waits for me to lift up as she tugs them down before reaching up to strip me completely and then just as quickly slides the harness up and secures it in place. Before I know it, I'm looking down at her, with an added accessory standing up between us. When she bends down toward it, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips before they part, I can't do anything but groan and try not to think too hard about why this is turning me on so much.

A little while later, I can't seem to help the hand that rests tentatively on her head as it bobs up and down in my lap, wanting to feel the motion in every way that I can, despite all the ways I can't, and letting my imagination supply the rest. Those impish eyes glance up at me again and I groan, sparks shooting through my body before I collapse onto my back.

There's a pop as she lets go and then a soft rustling sound that I'm assuming is her taking off her own clothes. That thought gets my attention enough to pop my eyes open just in time to see her bending over to push down a lacy set of panties that I kind of wish I'd gotten to enjoy more. But then she crawls onto my lap and I come to my senses, because this is so, so much better.

She urges me back and we find a comfortable place in the middle of the middle of the bed before she raises up and grabs hold of the toy. I grab her hips and stop her before I can second guess the impulse. And when she looks at me, I give her what I hope is a sexy smile of my own before tugging her up closer. She gets the hint soon enough and responds with what pretty much can only be called a delighted giggle before shuffling upward to settle over my face. My hands move around to settle on her amazing ass as I urge her down and then help myself to dessert.

I don't let her up until her thighs are trembling and my face is coated in evidence that I can give every bit as well as I receive.

And then she moves down and practically slams herself onto my lap, causing an almost shocking jolt as she presses into me just right. I groan again and arch my back, once again not able to do anything but hold on and enjoy the hell out of the ride, even if I am currently playing the part of the ride.

I'm okay with that, too.

Brittany's actually screaming when she comes the next time, collapsing down on me in a sweaty heap and I wrap my arms around the slick skin of her back. The jolts of my own orgasm still tingling through my system like the best kind of buzz.

I feel.. content, in a way that is both amazing and terrifying. I think about how little I actually know about this woman in my arms. And how much I want to change that. It drifts over me like a hangover, the melancholy that comes from thinking too much about what I'm actually doing.

I close my eyes, take a breath, and then speak before I can talk myself out of it.

"Tell me something." I whisper into the darkness surrounding us.

Brittany shifts, but only to pull her face back from where it was pressed into my neck.

"Like what?" She whispers back, either caught up by my mood, or caught in one of her own.

"I don't know. Something random. Something true. Tell me… anything."


	10. Chapter 10

_Ok, this is for VeranoLaw, who made an impassioned plea for another update today, and who leaves me some generally amazing comments on my story._

_I did mention that I was open to bribery._

* * *

I'm half expecting her to politely pull away, because I'm sure there are all sorts of inappropriate lines I just crossed and I couldn't blame her if she needed to leave now.

Instead I feel her sigh against me, sliding her body into a more comfortable position pressed into my side. "When I was little, my dad was a sort of a magician." I frown a little, because that so wasn't what I was expecting. But she's talking, telling me something about her life and I can't help but feel the need to lap it up greedily. "Well, just like a hobby, but sometimes they would let him do shows for the other crew members. I thought it was the most amazing thing ever, that my dad could make thing appear and disappear and sometimes it was like he could read people's minds." Her voice is soft, and it's easy to imagine her as a little girl, filled with wonder. "I felt like the luckiest kid in the world. For my ninth birthday he pulled a kitten out of his hat for my present. And then one day when I was about ten, the show they had booked fell through, and the captain asked dad if he wanted to put together a show to do for the passengers. And then he came to me and asked me if I would help him and I was so excited. Because I was going to finally find out about magic. I didn't even care if he was going to cut me in half, because I knew he would only do that if he could put me back together."

I chuckle at the thought, wondering if I've ever had that kind of faith in anyone.

"But when he showed me what he wanted me to do, it wasn't about magic at all. He knew that I was flexible and I could fit my legs inside one half of the box while he made it look like I was laying down. I didn't understand why he didn't just do it with magic, but I did it exactly how he showed me and the passengers all gasped and clapped. Like I really had been cut in two pieces. They didn't know that it was a trick. Or I guess maybe they did, but they didn't care that I was just a girl squished into a box." Brittany pauses then, taking a much deeper breath, "I cried all night long."

"Why?" I held her closer, as though I could reach back through time and comfort the little girl she was.

"Because that was when I realized magic wasn't real."

The words rock me for some reason, so simple and stark. The realization that her world wasn't filled with endless possibilities. It was smoke and mirrors. It was learning how to get people to believe whatever you want them to with the right kind of wave of your hand. It breaks my heart a little bit more for her, because I think that's a lesson she's still putting to use.

But the fact that she is telling me this is maybe a sign that I'm not one of those people she's selling an illusion to. She wants me to see something else. She wants me to see the little girl cramming herself into that box.

"Your turn." Brittany's still whispering, like we're kids on a sleepover that can only keep up their game so long as we are quiet and don't get discovered, "Tell me something about you that I don't know."

If I had a dime for every time I've been asked a question like that, especially in the past few days, I could probably have bought a ticket on her father's ship. But I force myself to throw out every answer I would normally give, every answer I would give to anyone else at all, and try to think of something, some part of myself that I can give just to Brittany. No smoke. No mirrors. Just the box that I jammed myself into.

"I used to have this recurring dream when I was a teenager. I was making out with this shrub in the shape of a person." She leans back a little to look up at me, her pale skin clearer now in the darkness. I shrug with a small smile. "It took me months to realize that the shape was a girl." It was almost a year later that I finally accepted what that actually meant. Not until one night when I got drunk at one of Puck's infamous parties and woke up next to a naked Cheerio.

And then proceeded, of course, to descend into a bitchy, depressive funk, until one day Holly found me hiding out in the library surfing for porn. Holly was the right mix of blunt, pushy and sincere to actually get me to admit to my fears. She told me I was young and didn't have to slap a label on myself like I was waiting to be filed away somewhere. Then she suggested I find a way to express myself, to make sense of all the things building up inside of me. It was the song that got me a record contract after Mr. Shue let me sing it at Regionals and started this whole crazy ride.

But no one, not even Holly or any of the parade of therapists I've seen, ever knew it all started with that stupid, itchy shrub. And my heart pounds now that I've actually said it out loud.

We get up a little later, cleaning up in a companionable silence and finish off a tub of Haagen Dazs. I almost let myself forget about it when Brittany tilts her head curiously and asks, "Was it in the shape of any particular girl, or just, like, random leafy boobs and butt?"

My mouth gapes open for a moment before I burst out laughing. When I finally manage to stop, I shake my head. "You know what, Britt? I don't know, I never really thought about it being someone specific."

She pouts slightly, like the answer disappoints her somehow. Then she shrugs, shoving the last bit of crust in her mouth and mumbles as she chews, "I should wear more green."

I laugh again, caught between wanting to analyze that and knowing it's pointless.

"Okay, your turn." I lick a few drops off of my spoon before tilting it toward her. "Something else about you I don't know."

It's such a dangerous question. It's a lover's question, and I'm not sure that's exactly what we are. Well, yeah, technically we are, but there's the whole pricetag element of our relationship in the way. Hers and mine. But maybe it's as simple as the fact that it's hard to be intimate with someone's body so much without eventually wanting to know more about what's going on in their mind. Or at least, that's what I'm telling myself, even though it's never really been true for me before. Maybe it's just because she's a mystery, because I really don't know much about her at all, that makes me so curious. Of course, if she tells me she's married with 2 kids at home, I don't know what I would do.

"Hmmm." She sucks on a fingertip in thought and I can feel the arousal crawling back up my spine. "I lost my virginity when I was sixteen. To a boy who worked in the galley."

I frown, because that wasn't really what I was expecting either.

"I don't remember his name. I think he was blond, though." I shift uncomfortably in my seat. "The only things I really remember about that night was thinking, 'Weird. It looks like the mystery meat sausages they serve on Thursdays.'"

I nearly spit ice cream all over the table.

"And that your song was playing on the radio."

The bite in my mouth surges down my throat in completely the wrong way and I choke and gasp, leaning over and heaving desperate breaths as my body fights off the unwelcome intrusion. Still gasping, my eyes water, I feel Brittany move next to me, patting my back with concern in her eyes. I choke out something that sounds enough like "water" for her to get the idea and bring me a glass from the sink.

By the time I've successfully sucked down enough lukewarm water to feel like I can breathe again, I have also had the chance to try and think about what she just told me. I don't know how to feel about it, or why that is the thing she wants to share. But there's a part of me that finds it strangely comforting. I chew my lip a moment, knowing that enough time has passed that I could let it go and not acknowledge the potential awkwardness of it.

Instead I take a deep breath and look up, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Which one?" I whisper, hoping she'll understand without me having to explain that I want to know the song she lost her virginity to.

The hand that has been randomly patting my back comes to rest there, before slowly starting to rub instead.

"_Mirror, Mirror_." She says it with a fond, wistful smile.

A memory overwhelms me suddenly. I think back to the night I started writing it, staring at myself in the mirror after I'd had sex with Puck, wondering if anyone was ever going to see more of me than just how I looked. It wasn't the first time, or the last. But that time, he never even really even looked at me. Not once.

_Mirror, Mirror tell me true. _

_The face they see, is it me, or you?_

When I look into her eyes this time, my breath catches again, because I am filled with an sudden certainty that somehow, this girl really does see me. And that she is asking me to see something in her as well, some truth that she can't bring herself to say out loud. And I want to see it, I want it so badly that in this moment I'm almost aching for it. But I feel like there's something in the way.

Whatever it is, I want to shove it aside. But I don't know how to say that, how to express it with this person that I seem to know so well and yet not at all. I'm hoping it's not me projecting something I've been longing for onto her, like it's another mirror, and I'm the one who can't see beyond it this time.

Caught up in my warring emotions, I do the only thing that I can. I kiss her. Then I kiss her some more. Then I push myself down to my knees in front of her and pull her hips to the edge of the chair, pulling off the loose boxers she'd put on so I can keep kissing her. And when her fingers knot in my hair, pulling me toward her with a pressure that's almost painful, I feel certain that this moment, at least, is the absolute truth.

The next day is the first in weeks when Rachel's increasingly busy schedule and mine finally allow us the chance to catch up. She takes me out this time, to a little bistro she's discovered in the East Village and I can't help but smile at the way she's bursting at the seams with excitement. It reminds me of the girl I first met who existed on nothing but the dreams she held on to so tightly in the face of an entire school that hated her having them.

To see her now, on the brink of having those dreams finally after all these years coming to life is making me feel affectionate and sappy in a way I'm not entirely comfortable with. So I tease her good naturedly instead about how she's going to get up on stage at the Tony's and forget her speech.

She throws a napkin at my head and it makes me laugh.

"So what about you?" Rachel's incredibly obvious when she thinks she's being subtle. I'm sure that's the type of thing which will work to her favor on Broadway. Here and now, it just makes me roll my eyes.

"What do you mean?" I ask, with a much better poker face. Or at least I tell myself it is.

"I mean, like, romantically? Any developments?" Rachel is actually on the edge of her seat, leaning toward me without actually looking at my face as though her body language isn't screaming at me that this is what she's been wanting to ask since the moment we sat down.

I find I have no actual idea how to answer that. I'm not really ready to expound on the confusing emotional attachment I seem to be developing with Brittany. Partly because it just feels too new and private to say out loud. And partly because I know Rachel is going to romanticize it too much and encourage me to lose all rational perspective. If she had her way, I'd already be looking for a fire escape to climb to Brittany's rescue.

So she could rescue me right back, of course.

Although, it's not like I actually haven't tried. Three times different times before she was out the door, I did my best to subtly bring up the idea the idea of me helping Brittany to find a different job. Mentioning auditions, a friend of mine who is a choreographer, even the school where they try their best to make me not look like a fool next to my back up dancers. She always deflects and changes the subject so quickly I can only assume that for whatever reason she's not interested.

"Nothing to speak of." I say, finally. Even though I'm pretty sure the long silence that stretched between her question and my answer was filled with evidence to the contrary.

Rachel pouts, looking at me like she wishes my mind was a place she could clean out and reorganize. And she's apparently not willing to let my poor attempt at deflection work.

"So are you still, um, _seeing _Brittany?"

I certainly had a nice view of her this morning. It was from behind, in my shower.

"Somehow I think you already know the answer to that." I think Kurt's condo in Maui just got downgraded to a sublet.

Especially when her eyes go wide and almost alarmingly guilty.

"I just want to know what's going on with you." She leans toward me earnestly, her hands reaching out to me in their overly dramatic way. "I feel like there's this big thing going on in your life and I want to understand it."

I let her get to me, more than I probably should. If only because she was one of the first people who really did look beyond that image in the mirror of me and care enough to see what was really there.

"I want to understand it too, Rachel." I say after another stretch of silence that probably says much more than I intend it to. "But right now I'm just kind of trying to take it as it comes," I shrug, "and enjoy it while it lasts."

"But you do feel something for her, right? I mean, it's not just…"

I stare at Rachel as she trails off. Chewing on my lip, I know full well this time that the silence is answer enough.


	11. Chapter 11

_First off, answering a couple of questions. In the story, Santana is about 24, Brittany is about 22._

_Also, another guest asked me if I knew how long I was planning on making this story. The answer is.. yes, I've got a very good idea how long it will be. ;)_

_I'm incredibly excited about the next few chapters and to see your reactions to them. Thanks so much again everyone who is taking the time to read and for those who also let me know what you think.  
_

* * *

The same night, I have a really strange dream. Sadly, no shrubs were involved.

I'm back in my old bedroom, surrounded by dark walls that hide my secrets away from the rest of the world. I'm staring at the mirror, the lyrics of a song shaping themselves to life in my mind. I reach out again, as I did that night, with a tube of lipstick and write the words on the mirror. But as I stare at the words slashed in red across my face, I look up to find I'm not alone.

Brittany's standing there behind me. A much younger Brittany, staring at the image in the mirror with a curious tilt of her head. She looks at me and says something, but her mouth is hidden by red letters and whatever she is trying to say makes no sound for me to hear. I try to ask her what she's saying, and she tries again, her face contorting as she tries harder to get me to understand. I shake my head, frustrated, until I finally turn around.

And find that she's not there.

I wake up feeling uneasy, like a restlessness crawling just under my skin that I can't shake. I pick up my phone at least a half dozen times before noon, wanting to do something other than just summoning Brittany for a hook up. I could plan us another romantic dinner or movie night, so at least we could talk for a while, but then I'm afraid those would be just glorified foreplay. Even though I know what a bad idea it is, I find the little I have learned about Brittany's life makes me almost insatiably curious for more.

But my dream keeps looming in my mind. I'm afraid that if I try to find out more, all I'm going to do is make her disappear from my life even faster.

I think about the girl she was, isolated and probably confused, losing her virginity to some nameless guy while my song plays in her ear. Instead of being touched, I feel cheap, like the worst kind of whore.

Whatever is true about Brittany and her life, whatever part I play in it, I don't really doubt that she's only ever done what she needed to, to survive. I didn't have that same excuse. I caved at the first sign of real pressure.

But now, I feel a need rising up in me that I haven't felt in such a long time it's hard to recognize it for what it is. The urge to be free of this feeling. The desire to have a moment, even if it's just one, when I can be that girl once again, sitting in front of that mirror, filled with the passion that comes from really, truly having something to say.

I feel like I owe it to Brittany, somehow. To the girl who she was, listening to my songs, looking for meaning in them when I had let the real meaning be stripped away for nothing more than the promise of a greater chance at fame.

Finally an idea sparks to life in my mind. It makes my heart flutter and my stomach queasy, but somehow that makes me want to do it all the more. I chew my lip for a while, trying to figure out how to make it work.

I feel something like guilt when I invite Brittany over the next night, knowing that I've got something of an ulterior motive. I even consider doing it here, alone with just the two of us, but that would feel too weighty somehow, too intense, and I don't want to feel like she's pressured into some kind of a response. What I have planned is meant to be a gift to her. And maybe to myself, too. To that little girl writing lyrics on her mirror, scribbling in her notebook, and who she might have been if she'd been a stronger person.

I've already made a few calls to a very suspicious Kurt when she arrives, wearing faded jeans and her rainbow cardigan over what looks like a leotard, her face is flushed and she's breathing like she's been running. I frown and urge her inside.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm not late am I?" She bends over slightly, still trying to catch her breath. "There was a bomb scare or something on the subway. I couldn't get closer than Lexington."

I do the math in my head. "That's more than a mile! Brittany.. what? Did you run the rest of the way?"

She looks at me sheepishly and I know she did. "Why didn't you just call me? Or catch a cab or something?"

"Well," she's still panting, "I knew you'd just want to send your car or something, and it seemed crazy to get a cab when I could probably make it faster my way. Traffic looked awful. I really didn't want to be late or anything, besides, I still made it." She looks proud, if a little sweaty, and I can only shake my head and sigh. "Ooh, is that dinner?" She sniffs at the air. I've got some tequila lima shrimp cooking for tacos with some of my Abuela's chipotle cream sauce. It's nice to remind myself how it feels to cook a good meal every now and then. Or at least, that's the story I'm telling myself.

I picked up a coconut cream pie for desert. Because it was on my way, of course. Well, nearly anyway.

I sigh, trying not to think about how much trouble I'm getting myself into here.

"Yes, it's dinner. But do you want to take a shower or something, first? I can keep it warm."

Her eyes take a naughty, mischievous glimmer and I think she took my offer a little differently than I actually meant it. I was sort of hoping for the chance to talk to her first tonight. But when she slides her hands around my hips and starts nudging me backwards toward the bathroom while painting gentle kisses on my neck, I can't think of any good reason not to go.

I detour quickly to turn down the stove and make it to the bathroom just in time to have the pleasure of watching her slide out of the tight leotard. I want to ask if she's got dance classes, or maybe auditions. But with my luck she's probably got a client with a fetish or something. I try immediately to purge that thought from my mind when she starts up the shower and then reaches to pull me toward her with a seductive grin. I let her strip me out of my clothes, even though I spent almost an hour picking them out, and into a shower which has only a passing attempt at actually getting clean.

Later, when she's got me pinned against the back wall, one leg wrapped around her waist as she pumps into me at a languid pace, I decide that it doesn't matter where she came from. It only matters that she's here.

The shrimp is more than slightly overcooked by the time we actually get around to eating my tacos (and yeah, okay, that joke is too easy even for me) but she still oohs and aahs over them like they were plated by an Iron Chef. And by the time we are in coconut cake nirvana, I have finally worked up the nerve to bring up the real reason I wanted her here tonight.

"So, um, do you have any big plans for Friday or Saturday night?" I grimace slightly, not sure exactly what I'm going to do if this goes the wrong way.

Brittany hums happily around a bite of cake. "Not for Saturday. Why?" She licks her lips and leans toward me with a wicked sparkle in her eyes. "Got any big plans for me?"

I cough, thinking it's somehow ridiculous that I feel like blushing when this woman just did her best to fuck me through the wall of my shower.

"Actually," I clear my throat, "I sort of did. Although, it's probably not the kind you are thinking of and I want to be absolutely clear that I'm perfectly okay if you aren't interested." That last sentence was pretty much spewed in a single breath and she's looking at me like she's worried I'm going to suggest something freaky. In the wrong kind of way.

Instead, before I lose my nerve entirely, I take out the envelope that I had tucked into a corner of my bookshelf and bring it back to lay in front of her.

She eyes it with confusion for a moment, and something that looks a little bit like fear. I gulp and wait for her to open it, not realizing until she does that I've been holding my breath.

"I'm.." I clear my suddenly very nervous throat, "I'm giving a sort of special concert. Very low key. It's basically a little hole in the wall place and most of them don't even know I'm coming. It's sort of a way to create some buzz about the new single before it drops and give me a chance to do some more, um, intimate performances before I have to gear up for the tour dates they want me to do."

And really, that's technically the truth, though the concert was my idea and no one else's. It was an easy enough sell to the record company, and Kurt didn't have a problem finding the right kind of venue for me, even though he doesn't really know why I want to do it. I don't know if he would try to talk me out of it or make it a bigger deal than it will probably be. I'm a singer, and I want to do a show. That's as much of the truth as anyone really needs to know. Especially if I wind up losing my nerve.

"I thought, if you wanted, maybe you could come." She looks up at me with wide eyes, and I start to panic. "But I mean, you don't have to, I know that it might not be…"

She apparently has decided the best way to shut me up is by kissing me, because before I can ramble anymore, that's what she's doing. When she pulls away, she's got both hands on my face like she's trying to hold off more babbling.

"That would be amazing. I'd love to go." She looks down and then back up at me through her lashes. "I've never gotten to hear you sing in person, you know. This is like, the greatest gift ever." And oh shit, now there are tears in her eyes and I feel myself panicking for an entirely different reason, because I'm so, so not good with crying. Unless it's Rachel's flights of melodrama, where I can safely just roll my eyes.

"Don't say that yet," I tease, trying to lighten the mood, "I won't even have a backup track or anything. I haven't sung completely live in a while. It might come out sounding like a cat screeching a back alley somewhere."

Brittany laughs then, shrugging her shoulders before wrapping her arms around mine. "That's okay. I like screeching cats. You'd be surprised how much they've got to say if you really listen."

I feel that flutter of excitement and fear in my heart again. And hope with all my heart that she's more right then she could ever imagine.

I'm rehearsing on the keyboard I keep in my spare room when I get a text from Brittany on Saturday morning, talking about how excited she is about the show. My stomach twists in nervousness as I glance over the paper in front of me. It's an old page ripped out of a spiral notebook, edges still frayed and the paper slightly yellow with age. I look at the words running down the paper in a handwriting that I can hardly recognize as my own. I've performed the other version of this song so many times, I almost have to put myself in the mindset of the night I wrote I finally wrote it all down to try and find my way back to the original.

Then, I think back to the day I sat in a sleek leather chair, surrounded by men and women in suits, talking at me with condescending voices about demographics and market trends. Not caring in the least about the music itself and what it was trying to say. The gold and platinum albums lined the walls behind them, making their arguments in ways the words really couldn't. I was just an eighteen year old girl, with only a supportive mother by my side, in the face of the well-oiled machine that is the record industry.

I probably never stood a chance.

I could either jump on board or get left in the dust. There was no way for me to realize back then what I was giving away in trade for my ascent into stardom, or how much I would regret it.

It's entirely possible that they were right. That if my version of the song had been released, without the darker, more somber lyrics edited out, without the stylish beat driving the brooding tone, it might have never even made it on the radio as anything but a curiosity. It was my second single, the one that would determine whether I was going to have a career or be cast aside with all the other one hit wonders, basking in their fifteen minutes before the next Tiffany in line stepped up to the microphone.

By the time my car comes to take me to the little bar I'm going to play, my hands are shaking more than a little bit.

I thought about calling Rachel to come with me. She's one of only a handful of people who have even heard the version of the song I'm planning on singing tonight. But she's already got Disney and fairy dust in her eyes where this situation with Brittany is concerned, I'm worried she'd wind up making me even more anxious than I already am.

Besides, I may be doing this for her, but somehow it feels important to me that I do this alone. If only to prove to myself that I can.


	12. Chapter 12

The bar itself, because it's not really even a club, is filled with a sort of excited buzz as I make my way into the room. The smash of people on the dance floor in front of the stage makes me nostalgic for the days of bar-hopping in high school. Fake IDs that Puck made for us clutched tightly in my hand as I danced my way across the crowded floor, ready to lose myself in the beat and dream of someone there to get swept away with me. Sometimes I'd feel two hands on my hips, and for just a moment, imagine it was some dream girl, appearing out of the blue to sweep me off my feet. When I would smell the musk of cologne, or feel the tell-tale pressure of a boy pressing into my back, I would close my eyes for just long enough to bite back the disappointment, push down what felt like a hopeless dream, and try to enjoy the moment for what it was.

Other times, I would see a girl that I thought was hot. I would tell myself that this is the time I was going to do it. I was going to dance over to her and see if maybe I caught her eye the way she caught mine. I could close my eyes and see myself grinding against her to the beat.

And then, of course, I would open my eyes to find her grinding with someone else. A time or two it was even with a another girl, which somehow made it all hurt just a little bit more. So then I would do what I always did. Find alcohol, and Puck, usually in that order.

But Puck isn't here tonight. As far as I know, he's still cleaning pools out in LA, with a picture of Beth dangling from the rearview mirror of his truck and the occasional nostalgic Mohawk.

Trying to put those thoughts out of my head, I make my way through the crowd, not nearly as anonymous as I once was and let an almost hilariously unexcited bar manager lead me backstage to the small dressing room that they have set up for me tonight, which I'm relatively sure is an employee break room the rest of the time. But there is a large mirror with a table pushed up in front of it for me, with a small vase of flowers that makes me smile and a random bottle of Perrier, because I assume that's what they figure a big star like me would expect to find. The couch lining the wall just beside the door is only slightly dingy and shows signs of recent, and rather furious, attempts at being cleaned.

Despite the annoyance the manager doesn't make a lot of effort to conceal, I can't bring myself to feel too bad about disrupting the place so much for the night. Maybe this is the beginning of the final ticks of the clock on my fifteen minutes of fame, and they can all make money someday when the E! True Hollywood Story comes to tell the story of the night I lost my damn mind.

God, I'm beginning to even think like Rachel. I really should call Quinn or something and see if she's graduated from Law School yet so she could cut my ego down to size in the way only she and Sue Sylvester ever did with at least ambiguously good intentions.

My only familiar, and surprising, support for the night comes in the form of the last minute band Kurt threw together for this gig. My drummer is off on a honeymoon in Cabo, and he knew only one person who could step in on such short notice. But when Finn peeks his head into the room, looking as dopey as ever, for some reason tonight that makes me smile a little bit. He gives me an exaggerated thumbs up before heading off to set up.

I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder when Brittany's going to get here. Or what she would think if she knew what this was really all about.

It's crazy to me that the thought of playing a tiny little stage would make my heart pound harder than it did when I performed live on television in front of millions. But I guess playing for one person who matters means more than a million strangers who will happily move on to the next flavor of the month when my time is up.

My phone vibrates with a text and I give a nervous sigh when I read it.

_Hey, not even late! U impressd? _

She's here. My stomach flips like I've just spun upside down on a rollercoaster. And before I can battle down the army of mutant butterflies ravaging my midsection, my phone buzzes again.

_Where r u?_

_Backstage. _ I type out quickly. _ Door at the end of the bar. _

Not even thirty seconds later, I hear a rush of music and chatter as the door is opened and then quickly muffled when it is shut again. I touch up my makeup and slide my slightly shaking fingers through my hair. I've left it down, falling softly around my shoulders. A simple white tank top and some dark jeans complete the outfit. No jewelry. I'm wearing nothing tonight that my teenage self wouldn't have worn. I turn when I hear her in the doorway.

Brittany's wearing white lace top, barely covering a lavender bra and a tight skirt that, almost miraculously, is in a matching shade of purple. She's got simple black pumps to go with the wide belt around her waist. My lips quirk into a smile, because the first thing I can think is to wonder if someone else dressed her for the night. And then my smile falls after considering that same thought. But I shake my head quickly to get rid of such thoughts. That's not what this is about, tonight. This isn't about two women who make their way in the world by selling a little bit more of themselves than they ever should have had to.

It's about a couple of innocent girls, looking for a connection in this lonely, confusing world. We weren't destined to find it then, so tonight I'm going to do my best to turn back the clock and give us the chance to meet each other at long last.

She looks adorably nervous. With a beaming smile, she can't help but bounce up and down on her heels and I can't help but hug her.

"Hi!" She gushes, "I'm so excited! This is amazing. Are you nervous? I would be so nervous! This is just so cool, thank you so much for inviting me. I know you didn't really have to but this is, like, a total dream for me. Did you know I actually tried to organize a protest once so that they would have to book you for one of the summer cruises? We staged a sit in, in front of the Captain's quarters. Well, it wasn't much of a demonstration because the only ones who showed up besides me and my sister were a couple of dancers who kept asking if I had any pot and the old hippie from the engine room who thought we were trying to book Carlos Santana."

I chuckle, somehow ridiculously flattered by the thought.

"But we stayed up all night long until my Mom came and told us if we didn't get in bed she was going to make us go help the cooks clean out the grease trap, which was like the worst punishment ever because it totally smelled worse than Lord Tubbington's litter box after that time he ate an entire plate of refried beans and habanero salsa."

Now I laugh harder, because how could I not? I hug her again to cut off the nervous rambling.

"Well, I'm sorry I couldn't be there to sing for you then, but I'm really glad you could come tonight."

There was another blast of noise from outside as the door was opened again and Finn's voice sounded down the hallway.

"Hey, Santana?" He popped his head around the corner, his eyes growing wide when he saw our arms still looped loosely around each other. Brittany pulled away from my hug suddenly, looking down at the floor like she felt guilty for being caught with me in a private moment. "Um," he coughed uncomfortably, looking away, "we're.. um.. ready to start.. I mean, whenever you are."

My brow creased at the way he glanced reflexively at Brittany one last time before turning to lumber back off down the hallway. I stare at her curiously, the way her expression doesn't change immediately after he is gone. She's still staring at the ground.

"You okay?" I ask softly, tilting my head down to try and meet her eyes.

She takes a deep breath before looking up at me again, something different in her face now, before she shakes her head and smiles, "Sure, I'm just… I know you have to get ready and I don't mean to distract you or be in the way or anything. I just wanted to wish you goo… oh, sorry! Break a leg! I meant break a leg! Well, I don't mean you should actually break anything but that's supposed to be, like, some kind of supercilious showbiz thing or something like that. Anyway, I have to go find a good spot. Thanks so much again for inviting me." Brittany squeezes me one last time quickly and then turns to vanish out of the door.

I watch the open doorway for a long moment, trying to figure out exactly what just happened. But then I hear some muted rumblings from the band outside and do my best to shake off my confusion. I can't worry about that now. It's showtime.

I make my way to the stage, trying to remember what all this is supposed to be about. To focus back when music was a passion for me, rather than a business. When I had something to say, rather than a product to sell. Even, or especially, if the product was me.

The stool that's sitting in front of the mic stand looks lonely and ominous to me in the semi-darkness, bathed in the track lights from the edge of the stage rather than a spotlight. And I make my way to it, smiling nervously at the excited murmurs that come from the crowd. A quick look shows Brittany standing just to the side of the stage, bouncing on her heels once again eagerly, looking like she has shaken off her strange mood and I flash her a quick grin, trying to get rid of mine just as easily.

I take my place, testing the mic softly before I address the crowd.

"Hi guys, how are you all doing out there tonight?" It's nice to be able to hear the responses from a crowd without them screaming at you. I can see their faces. These are not really my fans. They show only curiosity and a jaded sort of interest, instead of the rabid screams and wide eyed, frantic pleas for my attention. No one is even crying. It's sort of refreshing.

I start out slowly, with the version of my first single that I sang at Regionals once upon a time, before there were expensive backup tracks and that slick, overproduced sound. _Who Would I Be?_ makes me smile with nostalgia, even if its lyrics remind me more of Holly and her trying to coax some truth out of my soul than something that truly came from inside of me.

I hear Finn tapping out a rhythm in the background and wonder if he's remembering that performance as well. I glance up occasionally to see the crowd swaying along, seeming to be caught up in the moment, even if it's more caught up in their own moments of nostalgia that the song brings to mind. They cheer when I finish, and I feel myself relax a little bit.

My set isn't all that long. Not that many of my songs lend themselves to an acoustic version, though I have to say, the version of _Glitter Pop_ we do is oddly endearing. Like Alanis Morissette's take on _My Humps. _ It's the first time I've actually liked the song, if only for the unintentional irony of singing meaningless lyrics in a way where they can actually be heard. I notice a lot of phones recording and I'm curious how long it's going to take this to wind up on Youtube.

I smile at the thought, if only because if my producers and the record execs think this one is bad, then they have no idea what's coming.

I clear my throat when we finish the last song. The applause is genuine much more genuine than it was when I first came up on the stage, and so is the smile I give them in return. The band begins to shift around behind me, ready to get up and leave, but they all pause in confusion when I don't move from my perch. I palm the mic nervously, trying to decide in that moment if I'm really going to do this. Trying to put out of my mind what any consequences of it might be.

I look up and see Brittany standing just a few feet away, her head tilted, looking at me with a curious smile. She looks like the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my life. And I know then I'm going to do it.

"I'm glad you guys enjoyed the little impromptu show tonight." I wave and they cheer politely and wave back. "I think I just wanted to remind myself what it felt like to really just sing some songs to people. You spend long enough in this business, and sometimes it seems like business is all there is, when the reason you started out is something completely different."

The murmurs in the crowd have changed now to something more hushed. I think they can tell something interesting is about to happen, and their phones are at the ready to record it for posterity. Whether it be a genuine moment or a full on Britney-esque breakdown, they are now waiting with baited breath.

"Some of you might know that the song _Mirror, Mirror_ was the first one I ever wrote completely on my own." I glance up at Brittany, and see by the look on her face, the way she's staring at me, she knows it's not a coincidence that this is the song I am talking about. "But what I don't think anyone, other than a very small group of people," I chuckle, "knew was that the version that was released was not the same as the song that I first wrote." I gulp uneasily and glance up at Brittany and then back down again. "There are lots of reasons why it was changed, that have to do with all sorts of sound, business decisions. But they don't have anything to do with art. Or expression. Or any of the reasons why songs should be written. But unfortunately have a lot to do with what happens to them along the way."

I lick my lips and take a quick gulp from my water bottle, before I turn around and give my very confused band a few quick instructions. I tell them the key and the beat to use, and trust them to follow my lead.

"So, I thought it would be fun, for just this once, to sing my song for you." I meet her eyes as I say it, trying to clamp down furiously on the burst of complete terror I feel.

When the slow, sad melody rises up behind me, I close my eyes, and picture a bedroom mirror streaked with letters written in red lipstick. I push my lips closer to the microphone, starting off with the lyrics they all know.

_Mirror, Mirror, don't be shy_

_I see the look there in your eye._

_Mirror, Mirror, tell me true_

_The face they see, is it me or you?_

_Mirror, Mirror, in the candles' glow._

_Trapped inside, will I ever know?_

_Mirror, Mirror, on the wall_

_Would someone catch me, if I fall?_

I sway slightly along with the beat, taking a deep, shaky breath before I go on with the words they've never heard before.

_Mirror, Mirror, in the dark_

_The sharpest bite, the loudest bark._

_Mirror, Mirror, painted glass  
_

_Flip your hair and shake your ass  
_

_Then Mirror, Mirror, who would dare, _

_To look inside, to even care?_

I feel a tear slide down my cheek. My eyes squeeze shut a little tighter.

_Mirror, Mirror, cruel and cold_

_No questions asked, no secrets told _

_But Mirror, Mirror, let me see,_

_What it would feel like to be free._

_Then Mirror, Mirror, make it real,_

_Before I forget what it is to feel._

_Mirror, Mirror, on the wall_

_Would someone catch me, if I fall?_

The music fades away slowly, as my band realizes the song has come to an end. And then there is silence. I can't bring myself to look up. I stare down into my lap, still shaking slightly. I don't think I've ever felt so naked in my entire life.

When the first clap comes, it sounds almost ironic, or cruel, and I close my eyes wondering if I have time to bolt before the tears come.

But then there is another person clapping, and another. And then there is a roar.


	13. Chapter 13

_First off, to answer a question, Mirror, Mirror is a real song only in my head. (And now hopefully in yours.)_

_Also, I don't think there will be second updates for at least a few days. _

_If it's any consolation, it's mostly because I'm working on this story, later on down the line, to make sure I am happy with it. Because I'm getting close to the end and want to focus on getting that right._

* * *

For one, long moment, I'm sixteen again, hearing people cheer for me for the very first time. For something that I created, a part of me that I've opened up and let them see.

It rushes through me like a wave, and head bowed, I can't stop the tears that come. My eyes blink open and I see them there in front of me, still cheering. I see the lights of their phones pointed toward me. I take another breath and look over to Brittany.

She's not clapping. She's not moving. She's staring at me with an indefinable something in her eyes, and a chill runs through me.

But I sniff and square my shoulders. Even if this doesn't turn out the way I hoped it would… even if I can't really say what I was hoping for other than something that was 'not horrible', at least I did it. After all these years, I finally sang my song, my way. I feel like a weight has fallen off of me, and there's even a small, dark part of myself that hopes this torpedoes my career and I will never again have to fight for the right to do something the way I want it.

I laugh softly through my tears, when I realize I can put a name to what I'm feeling. I feel free.

I take in the applause, and the pats on my back from the band. I get a hug from Finn that I don't even really mind that much. And I make my way back to my improvised dressing room trying very hard not to think about the way Brittany was looking at me, or the fact that she didn't come to the side of the stage to see me. I guess maybe it was just too much for her. I can't let myself dwell on that right now. I feel too raw, too exposed. Like there's a part of me that's newborn in this moment, blinking and shivering, exposed for the first time to the bright lights of the world.

Sitting down in front of the mirror, I stare at the girl who is staring back at me, lost in memories. I reach into my makeup bag, fiddling with the tube of lipstick inside of it with a wistful smile.

She doesn't knock. And for some reason, it doesn't surprise me.

Brittany just wanders into the room like she's in a daze and I take it in with an almost detached curiosity. Like my emotions are suddenly dulled. I think maybe it's like my heart is trying to protect itself. I watch her reflection moving closer to me like it's not real. Like she's on the other side of the looking glass, like in my dream, and if I turn she'll have disappeared.

When her hands land on my shoulders, it jolts me back into the moment. Now, all of a sudden, she is real. She is here and she's still got a look in her eyes that I still can't define but for some reason I'm finding almost terrifying.

"Santana," she whispers, "there's something I need to tell you." I meet her eyes in the mirror. They are filled with tears.

I can feel my hands trembling, and then the tremors run up my body. Not yet. It's the only coherent thing I can think. Please Brittany, not yet.

This is the night I found the courage for my own truth, I'm not sure I've got the strength to deal with yours as well. I'm too raw, too fragile in a way I can't ever remember being before. In the way I've spent my entire life trying to avoid, so that I would not have to face this very moment. She's not smiling. The tears in her eyes aren't happy ones. She's afraid of something. She's afraid, because she knows whatever it is she's going to tell me is going to change things between us somehow.

Let me have this night, Brittany, my eyes plead with her. Let me this moment, before you rip it all away.

Be my fantasy. Just let me imagine us as I wish we could be this one time. Even if it's the last.

She stares at my reflection, and I stare at hers.

I can be your fantasy too, I think, willing her to understand. Let me have this one night where I can imagine that there are parts of us that have been frozen in time, waiting for this moment to meet. Where there is nothing at all but what might have been. Whatever else is true, I know there is a part of her that wants me. Even if it's nothing more than that girl she was, with some strange boy pumping inside of her for the first time, feeling that ache of loneliness that can only come when you know you're giving up something of yourself to someone who doesn't see you, doesn't care. It can define you, define how you see yourself. How you feel when you look in that mirror. But then, maybe she closed her eyes and heard a voice that seemed to understand. Maybe it let her feel a connection to someone she couldn't feel with anyone else in the world. Someone who knew what she was feeling, because she felt the same way. Maybe, on that night, she imagined it was me there, that it was me inside of her.

I'm moving before I can stop myself, before I would even want to. I stand up, spinning around as fast as I can before she can vanish, and I slam my entire body into hers with a ferocity that's a little scary.

Brittany doesn't question it. She doesn't flinch away. She leans in to meet smash our lips together, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and clutching tightly. I want to sob with relief as I back her up far enough to kick the door closed and then I shove her up against it. We've never kissed quite like this before. Teeth and tongues and a lifetime of hunger. Sucking greedily. Maybe taking the only chance we will ever have to get our fill. And she opens herself up to it completely. She moans into my mouth and wraps a leg around my waist, pressing herself against me with a needy little whimper. One that ends in a growl.

I drop my hand quickly down, yanking at her skirt and pressing it between her legs desperately, groaning as I feel the soaked panties jerk under my touch. I push them aside and slide two fingers into her so fast Brittany's kiss freezes, her head falling back against the door with a soft thump. She's wet. Crazy, dripping down to my wrist, wet. And the noise we make when I start fucking her is the rudest, sexiest thing I've ever heard in my life. Because she's mine. Right now the only thing I know in the world, the only thing that matters to me in this moment, is that she's all mine.

And I'm going to take her.

I can't find the leverage I want here and I look around frantically before wrapping my free hand around her waist and backing us both up until I plop down on the couch with a grunt. Brittany follows me easily, impaling herself even further on my hand as her knees plant themselves on either side of me. She's panting now, soft little cries coming out every few breaths and rolling her hips into me with her head thrown back.

I press my arm even tighter around her waist, calling her name softly.

Brittany, please.

When her head raises back up, she looks overwhelmed and I stare up at her with a greedy fascination. Like I want to burn everything about this into my memory, and store it away so that I would remember that at least once in my life I felt something like this.

And then she's looking into my eyes, both hands buried in my hair, tugging on it in a way that's a little painful, and I don't even mind a little bit. It shoots down my spine, adding to the fire building up between my legs and all I want is to lose myself so deep inside of her that I get trapped there forever.

I say the words before I can even think to stop myself. Before I even realize they are the truth. They come out of me in a breathless gasp, like they are fugitives, escaping from inside of me, taking this one chance at freedom. And when she pants and stares so hard into me that I think maybe she can see right into my soul, I say them again, louder this time. The three most important words of my life. More than my song, more than any poem. The most clichéd phrase in the entire world, the one so much easier to say than it is to mean, is in this moment the only truth in my whole life that matters to me.

Her body clenches so tightly around me that my fingers burn with pain, and Brittany's head falls back as she lets out a loud shriek. I moan, eyes rolling back, and come without even needing anything to touch my body. Where she is touching me is so much deeper than that.

She slumps against me, licking her lips blearily and I give a weak smile, nuzzling into her neck and still trying to memorize everything about this moment.

My hand is still trapped, and it still hurts, but I still don't care. Because when my senses come back to me, all I can think is that I can smell her. I can smell her and my mouth waters for it, so with a last burst of strength, I twist and press her onto her back before diving down and burying my tongue between her legs with a moan.

I hear a soft, high pitched whine as her hips jerk against me and I lick her softly at first, savoring everything about the taste of her. I bury my tongue inside, wanting to taste it all, good and bad, bitter and sweet. When she comes, I feel like I could drown in her and without even thinking twice, I let myself.

We lay panting together, with me nuzzling gently at her hip. She strokes my hair softly, chest heaving and I try to steel myself for whatever is coming now.

"Did you mean it?" She asks in the softest whisper. And there's something unspoken there, but I think I can hear it. Would you mean it no matter what? Would you mean it even if I haven't been honest with you?

Would still you love the little girl crammed in the box, if what you've seen is an illusion?

I suck in a deep breath, trying to clear my head, to bring my rampaging emotions under control long enough to give her the honest answer she deserves. I can't imagine any version of Brittany I wouldn't love. But then, what is the illusion? Is it something out there in the world, or is it what is happening here between us right now? Have I just imagined some kind of deep connection between us because that was what I needed? Projected my hopes onto her when she was just trying to give me my fantasy?

Was she really just too damn good at her job after all?

Once again, my silence speaks for me. And when I look up, searching her face for the truth, I find her searching mine as well.

We both jump when a loud knock sounds on the door.

"Um, Santana?" Finn's voice makes Brittany jolt for some reason, tensing up and shrinking back from me in a way I don't understand. I look up at her in confusion and see that fear there in her eyes again. Her mouth works open and shut silently for a moment or two before she whispers with a soft, pleading tone.

"I'm sorry. I should've never let...I just wanted… I'm so sorry."

And then she lurches out from under me, barely pulling herself together before she jerks the door open so hard Finn's clumsy ass nearly falls face first on top of her. She stares at him for a beat too long for them to be strangers. And then she's out the door, down the hall, the crowd noise grows louder for a moment before it is silenced again.

And then she is just.. gone.


	14. Chapter 14

I want to wake up.

I want for all this to have been a dream. Again. So that I can text Brittany and ask her to come over. And then I can kiss her again and convince myself it will all be okay. I can control myself long enough to hear what she needs to tell me.

But there isn't any waking up from this. I'm sitting on the couch where I just told someone I love them for maybe the first time in my life when I knew that it was the absolute truth. That no matter what she was going to tell me, if this is what she wanted, we could have figured it out.

I should have said that. I should have answered her when she asked if I meant it. Because of course I meant it. I don't think there's anything in my life I've ever meant more. Why didn't I do that? Why did I hesitate?

That's what it's all supposed to be about, isn't it? That's what Rachel has been putting in my head. That all I had to do was really open myself up to someone and it would all be okay.

But it's not okay. And instead of the girl I love, I'm left here with a gassy infant lurching in the doorway.

I want to ask him why Brittany looked at him like she knew him from somewhere, and why she looked like she was so afraid. But it's none of my business, I guess. I had the chance to know, and I panicked instead. Now I suppose I don't have the right to pry anywhere into Brittany's life that she doesn't want me to be. And if I've gone too far and made her feel uncomfortable, or my feelings have taken me somewhere she can't ever follow, then I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it.

Finn coughs uncomfortably, reminding me of how much I want to strangle his girlfriend. Or maybe cry on her shoulder.

I don't really think I'll do either one.

"Is there anything you have to say to me?" I ask quietly, eyes closed, head leaning against the back of the couch.

"Um," he gulps, like he's weighing his options. I'm going to guess that since he's not currently running for his life, he's more about how to stay out of trouble with Rachel than with me. While he's not the sharpest tool in the.. well, just not the sharpest tool, I do believe he's at least smart enough to know that if he were too familiar with Brittany in the wrong kind of way, I would make him bleed. And cry. Possibly scream. "I…" But he's not running. He's not hiding behind Rachel's skirts, or even Kurt's for that matter. He's hovering around me, struggling with something that feels strangely like… pity?

I sigh, "Just go home, Finn." I'm just too tired to worry about what insult to hurl at him, or to demand he tell me whatever it is he's trying so hard not to. I'm just.. exhausted. The worry and anxiety about my performance, about what it meant, how she would feel, it all feels so pointless now. I poured everything I had into tonight and now I'm just.. empty. Every bit of energy that I had has been drained out. I don't even have it in me to cry anymore.

He's still hovering nearby and I peek an eye open to flash him a look that makes him visibly cringe. But he gamely stands his ground for a moment longer.

"What you did up there tonight, that was really amazing, Santana."

I manage a wry little chuckle. "Gee, thanks."

"No, I mean it. I've never seen you do anything like that before. It was like watching someone find what they were meant to do."

With that he turns and heads off down the hallway. I watch the empty doorway for a few minutes, my mind almost curiously blank. But the constant milling and chatter I hear from the club outside keeps me from being able to slip off completely into some kind of comfortable oblivion.

Finally, I take one deep, shuddering breath, pick up my things and by the time I try to make my way out through the club, I'm almost shocked by the mass of bodies still crowding around me. They let out a cheer as they see me and I feel almost confused, because these are not my usually teeny bopper groupies. These are the types of people who have heard of me, maybe were fans a few years ago, but outgrew me with all the other random obsessions of puberty. Now most have moved on to make fun of me to their friends while secretly downloading my songs to their IPods.

They are not the ones who normally cheer for me, or wait to stalk me outside of my home or hotel that always leave me caught somewhere between flattery and the deep seated need to flee in terror.

These people aren't waiting for something random for me to sign. They seem to only want to smile at me, and pat me on the back, tell me how much my song moved them. And when the tears come into my own eyes, I can't even tell any more if they are happy or sad, but at least I seem to be feeling something again. Because I didn't really think about all these people who were going to be here, tonight. I didn't sing it for them. They were an excuse I used to sing it for Brittany. To sing it for myself. And it might have actually wind up costing me the…whatever it was.. that gave the courage to do it in the first place.

I can't decide if that's actual irony, or, like, the Alanis definition of it.

But, either way, I can't take it back. And really, I wouldn't want to. I've found some truth in myself after all this time and no matter what, I can't bring myself to be sorry for that. Or regret that she helped me find some something in myself that I thought I had lost.

And when I crawl into my bed an hour later, after turning my phone off completely and trying very hard not to think about whether any scent from her might still linger here, I can't do anything but fall into a sleep that is mercifully dreamless.

It takes a good five minutes of pounding before I finally make myself get up the next morning. Kurt's standing there outside my door, something between concern and confusion written on his face and I don't really have the energy to try and analyze it. I leave the door open and wander to the kitchen in search of caffeine, in any of its wondrous forms.

"Santana…" he starts off hesitantly, as though he hadn't had five minutes of knocking at my door to work out whatever it was he wanted to say to me. "Are you okay?"

I chuckle softly, because I don't know if there has ever been a time in my life I was any more, or less, okay than I am right now. I settle for a shrug that lets him know I don't know how to answer the question he doesn't know how to ask.

"Look, I don't… I know you… Oh, good Lord, Santana, have you checked the TV or your Twitter or anything?"

Frowning, I turn toward him, and before I can even ask what the hell he's blathering on about, Kurt has his IPhone out and is shoving it in my face. It's playing a youtube video of my performance last night. I smile sadly and shrug again, not really wanting to think about it.

Kurt rolls his eyes so hard I think he might have nerve damage and moves to wrap an arm around my shoulder, pointing at the bottom of the screen where the number of hits to the video is displayed.

It says 15,788,329. 1,225,976 likes 1322 dislikes.

Um.. holy shit.

I look at him in confusion, and he's already spinning me around and pushing me insistently toward the bedroom. "I know there's a lot going on that you really need to deal with and I've already booked you double session with your therapist. But I was on the phone with four different executives before seven o'clock this morning, Santana. And these are people who usually sleep past nine. You have to get dressed, right now, because I had to promise each and every one of them that you would be at his or her office first thing in the morning."

He bustles past me, heading to my closet and thumbing through my clothes while I stand there dumbly, trying to wrap my mind around what's going on.

"Also, I have messages from 20/20, Ellen, every _single_ late night talk show host, and even one from Oprah who is wanting to put together a special show just to interview you. I swear, I don't know exactly what it all means. I mean, maybe everyone is just completely shocked that there is a video of a pop star is making actual music instead of a drunken fool of herself on the way to rehab, but whatever it is, we have to jump on it right now."

"But…what…"

He stops suddenly and walks back out of the closet, putting both hands on my shoulders and staring directly into my face with a serious expression.

"Are you going to come out, Santana? If that's what this is all going to be about, then it would be better to know that from the beginning. Because we certainly aren't going to book Bill O'Reilly if you are."

When I stare at him blankly, his lips are pursed thoughtfully.

"You don't have to decide right this second. And you don't have to.. like at all, but I just need to know, okay?"

I nod, feeling like there's a fog rolling through my head, making it hard to see anything beyond the tip of my nose.

I let him dress me and primp my hair, and then we are off to talk to a bunch of executives who seem completely unaware of the fact that they were the ones who wouldn't let me sing the song my way in the first place. One of them even says that he's been hinting at me for years that he thought it might be time to re-release the song with my original lyrics and he's happy I finally took his suggestion.

I laugh. Because how could I not?

My day is a storm of confusion that clears away some of the fog in my head. It doesn't help that in the videos I am shown, all I can see is myself singing to Brittany. You can catch a flash of blonde hair in some of them and it makes me ache. I spend that night surfing through the videos people have posted, looking for one that might show her more clearly. Because I want to see her again so badly.

I wake up in the middle of the night from a dream I can't remember, thinking about her, when I suddenly remember.

Stumbling out of my bedroom I run to grab my laptop and flip it open, waiting through the longest load screen in the history of technology before I can practically punch the mouse to click on my e-mail, thumbing back through until I find a message sent to me what feels like years ago by Sue Sylvester. And more importantly, to the pictures attached to it. I click through them quickly until I find it, and then I nearly gasp. Because there she is, in the midst of a bunch of women I wanted to pay for the right to touch their body, or have them touch me. That blue-eyed smile staring at me, making me wish for a different life, a different world, where we could have met in a different way. I stare at it for longer than I would ever admit to anyone, until I finally just print it out and take it back to bed with me.

I call Rachel a little after six, because I know she'll be awake, and she sounds relieved to hear from me. She doesn't say anything about Brittany, so neither do I.

I tell her quietly about what's been happening, and that I still have to decide if this all means I'm coming out. Not because I don't want to anymore, but because I don't really want to make a grand announcement about it. I'm going to be out, I've already decided that. But I think I might just decide to let my music talk for me. The stirrings of a new song, a real song, have been rattling around in my head, waiting for something to bring them out and give them a form.

She wants to ask about what happened with Brittany, I know she does, and I'm not ready for that yet. And if she had some grand, diva-like announcement to make, it would have already come tumbling out in a breathless rush.

I change the subject and ask how things are going with her show. Because I know it's not just a workshop anymore. She tells me they are going to be doing a test run off-broadway. They have a theater and the have just started rehearsing on the stage for the first time. I smile at the excitement she tries, very unsuccessfully, to hide for my benefit. Because I really did always know she was going to get her dream.

"Santana, if I ask you a favor?"

I want to say, "Why?" just to annoy her, but she sounds so serious, so I give a non-committal sound. Because I'm scared she's going to try to force me into something where Brittany is concerned, since she still probably has her Pretty Woman-colored goggles on.

"On Friday, we're going to have our first dress rehearsal of _Checkmate!_ in the new theater. And most people are inviting their families and everything to come see it, so they can see what we've all been working on. I was wondering if you would come. Please? I know you and I have our moments, but it would mean so much for me if you would be there. We can sneak you in the stage door so no one knows you're there. I don't want Santana the pop star. I want Santana my friend, who always tells me the truth. Even when it hurts."

There's something so sad and fragile in her voice, like she's terrified I'm not going to agree. I was supposed to fly out to LA on Friday to get ready to tape an episode of Storytellers this weekend, because that was the first offer I got in the wake of all this that I didn't have to think twice about accepting. But it doesn't tape until Saturday afternoon, and think I can manage a red-eye if it means getting to see my friend's dream come true.

I say a quiet "Ok," and then settle back to listen with a wistful smile as she tells me about her play, trying to pretend that I haven't heard it all two dozen times before.


	15. Chapter 15

_Okay, so I did say probably no more doubles, but I went on a big writing spree the past couple of days and made a lot of good progress, so here's a little mini-second update to celebrate and as a thank you for everyone who is taking the time to read and review the story._

_Plus, I'm sort of especially fond of this bit and was feeling impatient. _

_So here goes, hope you enjoy it. ;)_

* * *

At least four times a day, every day, I reach for my phone half convinced I'm either going to send her a message or have one waiting for me. There's a part of me that wants to understand, because I want to know what she was so afraid of. I should have just let her say whatever she was going to say and dealt with the fallout. At least then maybe I would have at least gotten to say goodbye. I was too caught up in my moment, too scared of letting my little bubble burst.

I should be happy, I suppose. Thrilled even, because it's like some gift that Brittany gave me before she ran out of my life. My career has practically been reborn. The offers I'm getting are everything I wouldn't even have thought to hope for. And even though Kurt keeps warning me that this might mean I make less money in the long run, have fewer overall sales, I can't really see the prospect of getting to play smaller venues as a bad thing. I'd forgotten what it felt like to be able to look your audience in the eye as you sang to them. She reminded me what it felt like to be something real again, to not be just another famewhore selling whatever people will buy. She reminded me that I had something to say, and that people would care enough to listen to it.

I should have listened to what she had to say, too.

At least twelve times a day, every day, I reach for my phone ready to call Rachel and demand she tell me what the fuck is going on, and what she knows, and why she hasn't told me. Seriously, it boggles my mind that now, after all this time, Rachel has suddenly figured out how to keep secrets. The girl who bursts into nervous giggles whenever she's trying to hide something, or blurts things out like it's a compulsion just because she's got some psychotic need to watch the way people respond to dramatic reveals, now can suddenly keep a poker face.

Although, it's also true that she's kept the secret, such as it is, of my sexuality for years now. But that was because despite everything, she really does care, and does understand that some secrets have to be kept in order to be a good friend. I find myself wondering again how she wound up sending Brittany over to my place, loaded with Disney movies and a hopeful smile, almost a month after the scene of my original panic attack.

Did she finally just decide I was pathetic enough and she had to take matters into her own hands? Did they bond at the party after I bolted? I've never let myself ask, because it felt like what was going on was fragile enough anyway, with a clock somewhere ticking down until it was inevitably taken away from me, because how could that kind of thing really last, anyway.

But damn, it was nice to pretend for a while.

I also wish I could have returned the favor that Brittany ultimately did for me. Because even though that song I want to write is still waiting to make its appearance, I find myself almost constantly overwhelmed by the reaction people are having to _Mirror, Mirror_. Someone has made a copy of the whole song, with clips from several of the cameras all edited together, which they are currently negotiating to possibly be released for limited play on television with an original track I'm supposed to record when I get out to LA.

The idea of my sexuality is being whispered about, in the comments sections on the videos and articles about the performance, but none of the media have really claimed on the gossip train yet. Though there was a blind item about the vibe between a 'sparkly' pop princess and a mysterious blonde at her concert.

If they only knew how true that was.

I even got a bouquet of flowers from the owner of my label so huge I'm pretty sure it could double as a float in the Macy's Parade. But then, from what I understand, Mr. Motta doesn't exactly do things on a small scale. And though I'm not entirely sure that having his attention is going to be a good thing for me in the long run, we made sure to send a polite note of thanks, which Kurt and I angsted over the wording of for almost two hours, just because we were a little bit afraid not to.

In the meantime, they sent over the final edit of the video for _Glitter Pop_ the other day, dusted off and ready for its release next week, and that took the wind out of my creative sails a little bit. Because no matter how good it felt to claim a moment of my own, once the new video out there, my career will probably be back to business as usual. Though with the chance to let me sing _Mirror_ and maybe another couple of songs my way on the tour, and the promise that I will be allowed more creative freedom on the next album.

But then, that's a promise it would be easy enough to break once the reaction to my little moment in the sun dies down a little bit.

I've taken to staring at my notebook for at least an hour a day, waiting for lyrics to come. But I'm just not sure yet what it is I've actually got to say. It was easy enough when I was an angst-ridden teenager looking for a poetic release for my bottled up feelings. Now though, I still feel lost and confused, stuck in some kind of strange limbo wondering what actually happened with Brittany. Where she is. What she's doing. What part of what we had together was actually real.

I could always call up Sue again, I suppose, and force a meeting. But that thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I never really liked to think about the pragmatic reality of actually paying for her time. For that matter, I don't even know how much I did pay. I should probably ask Kurt at some point, when I'm closer to finding some type of understanding or closure to this whole thing. Now just feels too soon. And I have to find a way out of the depression that's settling over me before the time is come to paste on a smile and sing my songs, the ones I want to and the ones I don't, and find an answer to the questions that will inevitably be asked whenever I start the promotional tour.

I'm hoping that Rachel's show will help out a little. Maybe it will remind me of the good times we had in Glee, and playing opposite each other in _West Side Story_. Rachel still claims that at some point, the two of us are going to play Anita and Maria on Broadway together, and then sit backstage every night and laugh about how we've come so far.

So, by the time Friday rolls around, I'm genuinely looking forward to watching Rachel's show. Finally, something to take my mind off my own problems and worrying about questions I might never get the answers to. I dress simply, in coveralls and a simple blouse, and send my bags to the airport before I go. My flight isn't until midnight, and while I'd rather take Rachel and her family out to celebrate before I go, I'm hoping to at least squeeze in a couple of drinks to celebrate before the real world beckons again.

A quick knock and the stage door opens to reveal a suspicious looking old man who I'm sure couldn't care less whether I was a 'sparkly' pop princess or a stalker. I tell him that Rachel invited me and he lets me in grudgingly. I make my way to her dressing room to find Rachel camped out in front of her mirror getting ready for the show. Her eyes light up when she looks up and sees me behind her.

I smile, and try not to let my sadness come through it, because I've had enough of a taste of what a dream come true would feel like to be able to be genuinely happy for Rachel finally getting a shot at hers. She gets up and gives me a big hug, smudging her makeup on my shoulder in a way that makes us both laugh a little bit. She then sniffs away a few tears and tells me how glad she is I came and begging me to please keep an open mind about the show. I open my mouth and a question about what she knows about Brittany is almost out before I manage to get control of myself. Instead I settle for a, "You and I really need the chance to catch up soon, don't we?"

She bites her lip and looks nervous in a way that makes me sure she knows exactly what I'm talking about. I'd really hate for this to get stuck like a splinter between us that could wind up growing into something bigger that costs us our friendship.

All I get in response is a, "Santana, you know that I love you, right?" which is not exactly comforting, then she promises we will talk and begs me again to just go and sit back and enjoy the show. I can't really blame her for not wanting my drama to take away from her big night, even if it's the first of many big nights, I suppose she's more than earned that much.

Someone leans in the doorway, calling out fifteen minutes until curtain and her eyes grow wide before she quickly hustles me out toward the toward the seats with a quick, stern glance when I start to tell her good luck and roll my eyes before offering a "Break a leg" instead. But that thought makes me think of Brittany again and I'm sighing by the time I make it out to the sparsely populated seats, half-filled with a milling crowd of family and friends invited for this first real glimpse of _Checkmate!_ I see Rachel's Dads sitting proudly right down front, and I'm pretty sure I catch a glimpse of Shelby lurking a little further back. She gives me a small wave.

As for the rest of the crowd, if any of them recognize me, no one mentions it. It's almost refreshing.

All I really know about Rachel's show, from her rambling complicated explanation of nuanced hidden themes and commentary on subverting common literary clichés, is that it's some kind of lighthearted retelling of _Through the Looking Glass_, told from the perspective of the Red Queen, which is of course played by Rachel, herself.

And while I'm not entirely sure what that means exactly, except that I'm hoping there is an insane dude in a hat or at least a hooka smoking snail somewhere in the show, I'm going to do my best to keep an open mind and enjoy Rachel's first time as the lead in a real Off (temporarily, or so she insists) Broadway play.

When the overture starts, the curtain opens up to show an enormous mirror frame angled across half the stage. As the lights come up, you can see through it, to a blonde girl who is curled up in a chair asleep. She keeps sleeping, fading out as the Red Queen comes out, singing a song about how much she wishes she could escape. Rachel stands down stage center like she was born to be there. And I suppose she was.

Even though the huge mirror frame is still hanging over the stage, Alice doesn't actually make an appearance until half-way through the second act. I suppose that's one of those attempts at subverting or whatever. She falls through the mirror in an awkward heap, to the delight of the enthusiastic crowd, and seems to definitely be some sort of a parody on the Disney classic version. Then she gets up, and starts moving, dancing across the stage in a kinetic rush of flying blonde hair and overly exaggerated panic.

I quickly realize something else unexpected about the Alice in Rachel's play.

It's Brittany.


	16. Chapter 16

_I actually wrote that last chapter the day I first started posting the story here, and I think the wait to get to it has been worse for me even than it was for you guys. lol I had been afraid I was being too obvious at times with what the secret actually was. And reading your reactions to that last bit just made all this that much more worthwhile for me, it was a really fun night. _

_Anyway, on with the show._

* * *

I spend the first part of the scene trying to decide if I'm seeing things. And the second part trying to figure out what the hell it means. My body is hot and cold, numb and on fire.

It's Brittany.

_Bitch!_

I want to stand up just to start yelling. Things like, "What the fuck is going on?! Is this all some kind of twisted mindfuck game you were playing with me?!"

I want to run up there and grab her and Rachel both and lock them in a room somewhere until some part of this makes sense. I want to turn around and run out the door and never talk to a single one of these people ever again in my life, because clearly they all see me and my emotions as something put there for their own amusement.

Or worse, their pity.

I think about the look Finn was giving me the other day. I'm sure he knew. Of course he did. Everyone probably fucking knew and talked about it behind my back all the time, like some problem they had to solve and pretend not to fucking laugh that I was stupid enough to fall for it, or not to see it at all. I mean, was anything she told me even real? Was she some friend of Rachel's all along playing the part like some kind of method performance art piece?

Did I really sit there and bare my fucking soul to someone who was lying to me about _everything_?

My jaw aches from how hard I'm clenching it and I'm pretty sure my body is shaking. It's not that I don't lose my temper too easily sometimes, but this is something different. I feel humiliated and furious in a way I don't think I ever have before in my life. It feels like something inside of me is freezing solid, making my chest burn and ache and shiver all at once.

Were they fucking laughing at me behind my back? My so called fucking friends? All of them?

Why do this to me here and now? Why like this when all I can do is sit here and pretend to give a shit about some stupid show and not wonder if I'm actually pathetic enough to fall in love with a god damn fucking figment of Rachel Berry's imagination or something. She probably thought it would be good for me or something. Or maybe it's like the ultimate trump card revenge for everything and has been all-fucking-along.

I have to get out of here. I just.. I don't know what I'm going to do if I have to look at any of them right now. I feel tears sliding down my face and my hands are shaking so badly I can't even seem to grip my phone. I steady myself and go to stand up, only to be stopped by two hands on my shoulders, keeping me in my seat.

I don't even have to turn around to know who it is. I'd recognize that cocktail of extravagant cologne and skin care products anywhere.

He should be glad he's behind me and not in my face or I really, really don't think I'd be able to control myself anymore. Because whatever control I have left is hanging on by a thread. And I've been humiliated enough in this already without taking this whole fucking theater on a magical mystery tour through Lima Heights. Twice.

"I think it would be better for you if you weren't touching me right now." I whisper through my gritted teeth.

"You need to calm down, Santana." Kurt's voice is low, soothing.

I want to claw his eyes out.

"Why like this?" I choke out, licking away at a tear that slides too close to my mouth. "Why fucking do this to me in public?! Was the general humiliation not enough? Why not at least have the decency to tell me to my face?"

Well, okay, I think Brittany at least tried once when she realized how completely I'd fallen for the fucking game and probably felt guilty about it. God, now I'm going to have to go on tour and sing that song however many times and try not to think about the fact that the whole reason I opened myself up to do it was some sort of stupid fucking game…

"I don't know, Santana," he murmurs, "maybe they were worried you'd lose your temper, or just your mind, and jump to all the worst conclusions without letting them explain."

I deflate a little bit at that.

"Maybe they thought this way you'd have the chance to think it through a little bit and _calm down, _so you'd be able to actually hear what they had to say."

Sniffling, I cross my arms tightly over my chest. He leans closer, until he's right next to my ear.

"Maybe she was just as scared as you, and didn't know how to say it."

I frown, not wanting to let myself think like that, because right now hope feels like the most dangerous emotion there is.

But my head clears from the red fog of rage enough to really look at her. She's jerking around the stage in some sort of panicked, spastic dance that's clearly meant to be exaggerated. The audience seem to love it, they laugh she crawls around babbling about rabbits and lost kittens and a jabberwocky.

Even in a dance that's seems to be making fun of herself, she still looks amazing. I suddenly feel like I'm getting the chance to see her, really see her, for the very first time.

I don't know whether I want to run to her and grab hold of her, or run away so far no one could catch me.

"You knew." It's not a question, and he doesn't bother responding. The only thing I really can ask, the only lucid question in my mind is simply, "Why didn't you tell me?"

I hear a sigh close to my ear as we both watch the stage, and for a while I think he's not going to answer me. When he does, it's a quiet whisper. "It wasn't my secret to tell, Santana."

There are so many things wrong with that statement I don't even know where to begin. Starting with the fact that he is supposed to be my friend, my manager, and generally concerned with my own wellbeing instead of some chick playing games with me.

I quickly file through every moment I can from the past few months. Brittany not interested in the jobs I could give her. Rachel asking me if I would be interested in Brittany without this arrangement. Brittany looking into my eyes through that mirror, saying she had something to tell me.

I guess I should have listened.

"Was this all some setup from the beginning?" I choke out, my teeth aching now from how hard I've been grinding them.

"No," he says, and I have no idea what that means.

"Why now?" I ask quietly, an almost unnatural calm taking over my body. "Why now when my career just exploded and I've got a plane to catch a few hours? Why hit me with this when there's nothing I can do about it? Is that the point? Am I supposed to take this as a goodbye or something?"

His lips purse like he is holding back a response he wants to give. "I think you need to talk to her, Santana."

Well thank you Mr. I'm So Helpful I Will State the Goddamn Obvious. As though he can sense the frustration boiling up inside me, he places one hand on my arm, his pale skin a contrast with mine.

"There is one thing I need to ask you, though." Oh, this should be good. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Do I need to be sending out my resume?"

I blink wildly and turn all the way around to look at Kurt, now. The expression on his face is grave and sad. Of all the times I've threatened to fire him in anger, or to tease him because I'm just a bitch like that, this is the first time he seems to genuinely believe I might really do it. I roll that thought over in my mind for a while, as the play goes on in front of me and I can't really process any of it.

Everyone around us laughs suddenly again, but Kurt and I seem to be suspended in our own little bubble of tension, oblivious to everything outside of it. He's been with me through almost the whole ride. Taking over before my second album was even out, and he probably wasn't remotely qualified to, when my managers and every single record executive were trying to drive my career in every random, crazy direction they had an impulse to. I needed someone I could trust, who understood enough about me to know what he was getting himself into, but still dove in head first and has done nothing but try to protect me, even when I was too oblivious or self-absorbed to try and protect myself.

To lose him now, when we were on the brink of everything we worked for seems unthinkable.

But how can I trust him? When he's kept something this huge from me, knowingly been a part of whatever game all this has been about. Or is that what it was about?

"Is that what you want?" I say, still facing forward. "Looking to escape my world of crazy after all this time?"

"No, Santana." He sounds sad, and hurt by the suggestion. My arms loosen a little bit around my chest. "What I want is for the first time in forever to know that I've done right by you as your friend, and not just by your career."

"And how is lying to me being a good friend?" I bite out the words a little too loudly and we get warning glares from a man a couple of rows away.

"How was lying _about_ you being a good manager?" He whispers harshly, leaning closer. "Sometimes there just isn't an answer that's completely right, and you just have to go with the one that seems a little less wrong, if it means getting to where you want to go."

"And where is that exactly?"

He sighs, and leans over the back of the chair next to me, looking up above the stage, to the huge mirror frame hovering above.

"Someplace where you can look in the mirror… and be proud of what you see."

I suck in a hard breath and hold it, because if I let it out, I think I might explode, or implode, or just lose control of myself completely.

I still want to run away. I want to run so badly my knee bounces and the muscles in my legs clench in preparation for doing it.

He hands me an envelope over my shoulder. I take it in confusion and look inside to find our tickets for tonight. It's not fair that they are throwing all this at me at once when I can't even think straight anymore.

I let out my breath and force myself to stay still, the plane tickets clutched tightly in my hand, as though Kurt was trying to remind me that we were going to be leaving tonight either way. And that he was going to be there with me, if I wanted him to be. It lets me relax enough for the moment to let my muddled mind try and enjoy the rest of the show.

Rachel is brilliant, but I pretty much knew she would be. Brittany is amazing, in a small, featured role that turns Alice into a scatterbrained waif, who is constantly, and hilariously, paranoid that everyone around her is either growing or shrinking and has come through the mirror to look for her missing cats, who apparently were chasing a white rabbit.

And while I'm a little too spaced out to think completely clearly, I'm fairly sure the whole thing is meant to be a parody of recreational drug use. Because I really don't think that in either of the original books, Alice constantly had the munchies. And while I wasn't watching closely enough to be completely sure, I think the whole play might actually be some tripped out hallucination of hers.

Brittany does seem to have a certain knack for reinventing Disney moments.

That thought comes with a memory, or two, and a pang of longing that helps deflate what's left of my anger. I've calmed down enough to at least feel more in control of myself, for whatever that's worth. All I'm really left with is an overwhelming feeling of confusion that's making my head pound a little bit.

When the show ends, the crowd cheers and stands up to whoop and generally be overly supportive in the way only people who love you ever can. I clap along with the rest, but don't stand up, and watch everyone take their bows and then move out to get the hugs and congratulations from their family and friends. Rachel and Brittany both zero in on me, like they are trying to read my face even with the glare of the stage lights in their eyes.

Soon enough, the casual tone of the evening takes over completely. Everyone disperses, most jumping down off the stage to go get hugs and adoration. Rachel hugs Finn and they talk quietly, peeking glances over in my direction.

Brittany holds back, though, standing on the edge of the stage with her hand hovering above her eyes to knock out the glare of the lights as she looks in my direction, bottom lip caught between her teeth and anxiety written all over her face.

Kurt waits a moment next to me, like he's making sure I'm not going to bolt at the last minute, before patting me on the arm and sliding out to walk down the aisle toward Rachel.

"Hey Kurt," I call out, just loud enough to make him turn, but once he does, I don't know what to say exactly. Thank you doesn't really seem appropriate for the situation, but nothing else does either. Finally, all I can say is, "Don't even think about sending out any resumes. I saw Miley Cyrus eyeing your outfit at that party the other day and I'd hate to have to cut a bitch."

He gives me a broad, watery smile and then shrugs, "Eh, Miley wore cut offs in front of the Queen of England. She's too far gone even for my considerable talents." I laugh, genuinely smiling for the first time in what feels like forever. "And don't be late for that flight!"

He points toward the envelope in my hand and I shake my head with a smile. He gives me a dramatic turn and saunters down the aisle like he's headed down a runway.

Brittany has jumped off the stage, and passes him as she makes her way toward me with a small, uncertain smile.

"Hi." She says timidly, stopping a couple of feet away. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Hi. Um, sort of." I say back, partly because I don't have the slightest idea what else I'm supposed to say. What I clear my throat, what comes out turns out to be, "So, um, I don't really know how to ask this without sounding like an asshole…but.. um.. are you not.. I mean.. um.. h-have you had a radical change in career paths recently?"

She chews on her lip, then nods almost shyly. I can't quite understand why someone would be so reluctant to admit leaving the oldest profession.

"That's.. um.. I mean, that's great." I clear my throat again, shifting uncomfortably. "I guess I'm just.. um.. confused?"

Brittany's looking at me like I'm a bomb and she's trying to figure out if she just cut the right wire, or if I just have a delayed fuse. "You're not.. you're not mad?"

I think about it for a second. After my initial burst of anger had played itself out, I can't really decide if I should be mad because the hooker I've been, well, hooking up with, isn't actually a hooker. Really, I have no idea. I guess it depends on a few things. Like when? Why? How? And perhaps most importantly, _what the actual fuck_?

I feel pretty certain she wasn't just some random chick who wandered into La Pomme and decided to proposition me with sweet lady sex. Or that her headshot in Sue Sylvester's list of hopefuls got there by accident. I don't think Kurt was lying when he said it wasn't a set up. So I'm sure she was, at some point in there, actually a prostitute. And yeah, I'm a little stuck on the question of why no one actually bothered to tell me this little morsel of information. But given Kurt's insistence that I talk to Brittany and the fact that Rachel is currently as far away as she can possibly be from me at the moment while still being in the auditorium, I'm going to have to assume that the only answers I'm going to get will have to come from Brittany.

"I'm… I'm gonna go with… I don't really know what I am right now, other than extremely confused."

She looks relieved. Which is interesting. Though not so much enlightening.

"Can we.. Can we go somewhere and talk?" She asks hesitantly. I blink several times, because how many times in the past few months would I have given nearly anything for an offer like that. And now, when I finally get it, I'm sitting here with plane tickets in my hand.

Wait a minute.

Plane tickets. Like plural.

Tickets that Kurt gave to me to hold, when he always holds onto stuff like that because me being expected to keep track of things usually leads to tears and recriminations. Also the occasional law suit.

I look down at the envelope in my hand, sliding it open to look inside at the name on the second ticket.

Fuck a condo. He's getting a bungalow with a pool and an ocean view.

Chewing my lip, I glance up at her through my lashes, "How would you feel about LA?"


	17. Chapter 17

She frowns in confusion, which all things considered is a little bit funny, and I can only give a bemused laugh, holding up the tickets, "I um.. it seems like Kurt thought we might need a chance to talk. And I have to be in California tomorrow for the weekend, so maybe you could.. come with me?" I can't really read the look on her face and find myself suddenly and inexplicably panicking and rushing on before I can help myself, maybe because I still feel like I'm looking for some real sign to tell me what is actually going on here, what was real between us and how much of it only existed in my head. "Just.. I mean, we don't.. It can be totally…"

"PG?" Brittany supplies, cracking a little smile. I give a little relieved shrug, eying her carefully. "Those plans never tend to work out so well for us."

I laugh now, because I while still have no fucking idea what is actually going on, this moment feels sort of familiar between us. Maybe that means it wasn't just all in my head. All I really know is that whatever is going on right now, it feels kind of good.

"Well, this time we'll be secured to our seats at like 90,000 feet, so we'd probably be in danger of like, PG-13 at the most." Not that we've shown any particular ability to be around each other without random acts of nakedness, but hey, it's a brand new day. That and I actually tried the mile-high thing once, with disastrous results that I have no desire whatsoever to experience again.

The smile on her face gets even broader, until it's shining from her eyes. Brittany's looking at me like she's never seen me before. I can relate.

"You don't have rehearsals on the weekends, right? I can have you back by Sunday night. Or whenever you want." Is there a non-creepy way to tell her that I can't really stand the thought of letting her out of my sight right now? Probably wouldn't be a good idea to word it that way. But all of this still just feels so surreal, and I can't decide if this is the dream, or this is what it feels like to finally wake up and take a peek at reality. "Just come with me. I mean, it's only fair after all. You're sort of responsible for the trip."

Now she is the one looking confused and I find that strangely comforting. I smile, because I feel more sure of myself than I have, well maybe ever. I'm not really ready to explain to her exactly how she was responsible for it, but in my defense, I think it's maybe her turn to do a little bit of explaining.

"Unless you really don't want to go, or something. I mean, I would understand if you didn't." And yeah, that is such a lie I'm a little surprised my nose isn't growing or something.

"No," she shifts, her body language practically screaming her tension, "no, I would like that. I mean, yeah. If you really wanted.. I think.. I would like that."

She looks so apprehensive and insecure, I just want to hug her. But I'm not at all sure if that would make things better or worse right now. Maybe it would break through this wall of.. whatever it is.. between us. Maybe it would make it bigger. This girl, whoever she is, this is the person Brittany has been taking great pains to hide from me for as long as I've known her. I've had only tantalizing glimpses before, but now she's just here, standing in front of me, looking like she feels every bit as vulnerable and terrified as I did after I sang my song for her.

And yeah, that didn't actually turn out so well for me, but that was probably my fault. If I'd just listened instead of letting my fears rampage, maybe it would have turned out differently. The only thing I really know is that I want to do anything I can to make her feel safer right now, to let her know I'm not just looking for an excuse to explode or run away, or whatever it is she's so afraid I'm going to do.

I smile then, winking a little and holding out my hand toward her, "Well, in that case, come on Alice. Let's go find a rabbit hole." She laughs and I move toward her, rolling my own eyes. "And yeah, that sounded much wankier than it did in my head. But.." another thought hits me and I stop with an arm still half extended toward her… "You don't.. I mean, is there anyone you.. um.. is there a reason you shouldn't go or someone else you need to talk to?"

I will not assume the worst and freak out. I will not assume the worst and freak out. I will not…

"Well, maybe there is someone." My heart sinks. So much for that. "But I think he'll be okay with it." Okay, not so much sinks. Sort of implodes. But I Will. Not. Freak. Out.

Yet.

Brittany sees the frozen look on my face and seems to panic, herself. "I'm talking about my cat," she blurts out in a rush, "I just was trying to figure out a way to say that without it turning into some sort of pussy joke."

I bark out a laugh I couldn't help if I tried, and really wouldn't want to even then. She joins me in the laughter and almost timidly reaches out for my hand, looking over my shoulder and giving a small wave. I turn quickly, before Rachel can hide the big thumbs up gesture she's apparently been giving Brittany. I narrow my eyes at her and she practically dives behind the Jolly Dim Giant, who can only manage to give me a lopsided grin and dopey wave, and then another one for Brittany too, which makes her giggle and wave back.

And okay, I'm still a little flustered, massively confused and possibly secretly plotting some type of elaborate revenge on Rachel that might or might not involve Bernadette Peters and a goat. But Brittany's smiling and seems to relax a little more, so I let them off with a suspicious glare for now just to make sure they stay properly paranoid, before turning back toward her. Because right now, all I can think about is that I can't wait to meet Brittany's cat.

Insert your own pussy joke here.

I follow her back to her dressing room, because I was totally serious about the not letting her out of my sight thing, thinking of the way she was never in anything but dance clothes, and every other little thing that I either wouldn't let myself see or just assumed the worst about.

"Brittany," I start quietly and she peeks up at me over her shoulder in her dressing room mirror, when the question that my brain has been screaming for me to ask finally slips out into the world, "can I ask why you didn't tell me?"

She pauses, the towel that is half way down one cheek and covered in makeup goes still in her hand. My heart pounds so loud I feel like my body is vibrating.

Chewing her lip, she meets my eyes almost guiltily, "The truth?"

That would be a nice fucking change, yeah. I just nod.

She nods, and seems to think about her response for a moment before it begins, "At first, I thought you knew. That Rachel had told you. At least by the time you invited me over for dinner that first time," she shrugs sadly, "and just for some reason you didn't want to talk about it. But then Rachel swore that she didn't and by then I was just kind of scared, because what if it was the idea of me being a call girl that you liked? Or what if you got mad and threw me out for lying or something? I'd never had anyone treat me like that and I didn't know what to think, or how to handle it."

I frown, trying to think back to something I did that might have upset her, any way I treated her that would have made her uncomfortable. Feeling panicked and guilty suddenly, I say quickly, "If I did something that bothered you, I'm really sorry. I was trying…"

"Santana," she wipes away the last of her makeup and turns around in her seat, effectively stopping me mid-blurt, and pulling my eyes down to look into hers directly, "that's not what I meant." I relax a little. At least enough to be mostly convinced I'm not having a heart attack. "You never treated me like I was a working girl. You treated me.. like I mattered. Like what I wanted, how I felt, like it mattered more than anything." Tears pool in her eyes and she sniffs them away, "I'd never had anyone, not even someone I dated, treat me like that. And I just wanted.. I wanted to be whoever I had to be so that you wouldn't stop. And I thought maybe when you came and saw me in this show, then you would see that I could be more than.. well, more than what I was before." My heart breaks all over again, and this time I don't think any joke is going to heal it. She sniffles again, looking down. "But then you took me to that club and you sang to me. You just, you opened yourself up so much and then I felt terrible because here you were trying so hard to be honest with me, and I wasn't being honest with you."

I nodded slowly, trying to take it all in. Trying not to feel like the moron of the universe, with only partial success.

"Can I ask you something?" That hesitant tone is back and I feel my chest clench in anticipation.

"You can ask me anything you want."

"Why didn't you want me to tell you? That night."

I chuckle now, even though my eyes are blurred with my own tears. I never once consider telling her anything but the absolute truth, "Because I thought you were going to tell me that you were like, married with two kids, or that you liked me but couldn't feel that way about me, or something else that was going to mean I was going to lose you. And I'd never felt this way about anyone, either. I thought.. I thought I wanted to be whoever I had to be to keep from losing you at that moment, even if it was just a client."

"Wow," Brittany shakes her head, a smile peeking out shyly, like the sun on a cloudy day, "we're kind of fucked up, aren't we?"

I laugh harder through my tears. Because yeah, we sure are. But at least we seemed to be a matched set.

"Can I ask one more thing?" She sniffles, but suddenly develops an interest in staring at the dirty towel in her hand. I don't answer, because I already gave her permission to ask anything, and I think she's just working her way up to it. Chewing her lip, she glances up at me through her lashes, "Why didn't you answer me that night?"

I almost ask her to clarify, just to give myself a moment to work up to my answer. But it's not like I don't know what she's talking about. Or even completely how to answer her now. Why didn't I answer when she asked me if I meant it? I feel like I'm just meeting this brand new person and everything else was like the edited version of Brittany. And I still don't know how much of what I felt for her was about what was going on between us, and how much was me projecting something onto her, which is the real truth about why I couldn't bring myself to answer. But I don't know exactly how to say that without it coming out wrong, or hurting her.

I'm supposed to be good with words, right? I look around almost desperately for some inspiration to say what I am trying to say. Finally, I move closer to where she's sitting and kneel down on the floor in front of her, so I'm looking up into her eyes and take one of her hands.

"Hello, Brittany Pierce. It's very nice to finally meet you." Her lips quirk, like she can't decide whether to smile or frown. "Because I'm really looking forward to getting to know you." I chew my lip for a moment and then glance up at her, with a sudden flash of inspiration. My lips quirk slightly, "And I hope you pick me. Because you're really hot." She bursts out into a sudden, unexpected laugh and I grin up at her. "You're not a virgin, are you? Or just not with a girl? Because…"

A kiss stops my rambling, and I can feel her smiling. She seems to understand my answer and accepts it. I don't know if I can be in love with a person I only just met, even though we've known each other for a while, but I'm so looking forward to finding out.

"Definitely not a virgin," she whispers the words against my lips, and I chuckle, because the more we talk, the more it feels like I really did know her. That the version of Brittany I had let myself fall for is sitting here in front of me, and she's been there all along, hidden in plain sight.

"Well, that's a relief." I wink at her and then kiss her again. "C'mon. Get ready. We've got a plane to catch," I pause, "and a pussy I'm dying to meet."

Oh, come on, I had to.

And okay, the pussy in question turns out to be morbidly obese and, I'm just guessing here, amazingly spoiled. We eye each other suspiciously as Brittany packs a quick bag and puts him out enough food to keep an ordinary cat busy for a month.

Brittany's apartment is tiny, or cozy if I'm being kind, and very bright. Though the flashing neon outside the window might have something to do with that. It's honestly a little pastel for my taste, but it does feel warm and comfortable. She takes a moment before we head out to lean in and give me an adorably shy kiss. Not at all like someone who has blithely fucked me into oblivion and back, more than once.

We pass by a wall half-covered in pictures of Brittany with her friends. A young Brittany with her family, father in a pressed white uniform, on board a cruise ship. An adorable one of her and her father posed on stage, the magician and his assistant.

The smile that spreads across my face almost makes my cheeks ache, because if I had any doubt left, I know for a fact I'm looking at the girl I was just getting to know, the one who told me about crying all night because there was no magic in the world. She's right there, a cheesy grin on her face next to an equally cheesy one on her father's.

I feel like whooping for joy.

"Are you sure you want me to go with you?" She still looks worried as she looks from me, to her pictures and back again, like she's trying to decipher my thoughts.

I eye her for a moment and then lean in to whisper with a grin, "I'm willing to kidnap you if I have to. My driver probably has some duct tape for emergencies."

She giggles, relaxing again, "Not handcuffs? That would be more fun."

Ah, there she is.

I want so much to get to know this new Brittany, but I can't pretend it's not a little comforting to see that she doesn't seem all that different than the old one.


	18. Chapter 18

The airport is a little stressful, if only because they usually feel the need to offer me some kind of security escort that winds up calling even more attention to me. People are taking notice of us before we even get to the gate. I sigh a little, because I was hoping for a chance to talk to her more before she got the full initiation into the crazy of my life, or at least that the airport would be more deserted as we edge closer to midnight. But she seems to take it in stride, the only sign of reaction the way she moves a half step closer to me. I consider taking her hand, but the flashing cameras make me pause.

I hate myself for it just a little bit.

I'm happy to see that we seem to be the only ones in a deserted first class section, and wonder for a moment if Kurt actually bought out the all the seats to make sure we would be alone. I wonder if he would tell me the truth if I asked him.

At the moment, I'm grateful whether it was fate, or Kurt, because with the exception of the occasional flight attendant (at least two of which I expect to ask for my autograph at some point during the flight) we seem to have the joint to ourselves. It makes me almost wish I had chartered a jet or something, just so I could ask everyone to leave us alone.

But right now, I'm not inclined to complain. Brittany looks excited and while I had been planning on sleeping the whole flight, since I'm sure my eyes are going to resemble something out of a zombie movie tomorrow, I decide that's what concealer and Red Bull are for. I'm sure I'll be needing plenty of both.

By the time we're airborne, my mind is swirling with what feels like about a million questions. She smiles at me, and seems to be patiently waiting for me to decide which one I'm going to go with.

When I can't stand it anymore, I decide there's no point in avoiding the issue. And besides, I really need to understand, "Ok so, when I first met you," she nods with a wry smile because it seems like she knew this is where we would begin, "you were…um.. still with Sue. Obviously," Brittany nods again, this time with no smile at all. "So then, what happened between that party and, well, Rachel planning a night of innocent Disney fun?"

She blushes, and I think that is maybe the first time I've seen her do that. Well, when we weren't in the middle of more strenuous activities. I shift in my seat while I wait for her response. When she begins, I get the feeling she's maybe rehearsed this conversation in her head a few times.

"I'd been auditioning already. I mean, everyone always says you know when it's time to go, and I just kept putting it off I guess. They told me if I wanted I could have gotten a job teaching or something, but it wouldn't have made as much money, and I liked being able to go clubbing when I wanted and not having to think about it if I wanted to go out and eat." Brittany looks a little ashamed and I frown, because I understand that kind of motivation all too well, especially as I look around the empty first class section. "I wasn't working very often, like trying to wean myself away or something, but then Sue called me and told me that she just talked to my dream girl and she was looking for an escort." Now I'm the one who feels a little bit ashamed.

Still, though, "Your dream girl?" I can't help but grin. It might be a little dopey. I admit nothing.

Brittany rolls her eyes, like she was doing nothing more than stating the obvious. "Yeah, it was this big shot singer I've been in love with since I was fifteen. It wasn't like I was going to say no." In love with? I can't tell if she's serious or not. "I even convinced myself that it was, like, fate or something," she blushes again, like she's just admitted something she didn't actually mean to. "I was so excited. I totally blew off an audition to go spend a day at the spa so I'd look super nice. I couldn't even eat lunch because I was so nervous."

Thinking about her giddy, nervous excitement feels a little bittersweet.

"I was the first one there. I actually waited outside for like half an hour, because I didn't know if they would let me in. But then Mack showed up, and she just kind of strolled in, so I followed her. We thought for a while you weren't actually going to show up," I chuckle, because so did I, "but then you were there and you were looking around and I just kept thinking I wish we were in some club somewhere, and I could rip up the dance floor and you wouldn't want to look at anyone but me."

I think back to that night, remembering the way she kept glancing to the dance floor.

"As long as we're going for the truth here," I chewed my lip and glanced up at her, "I didn't actually want to look at anyone but you. But I would have felt bad asking everyone to be there to meet me and then blowing them off."

Her eyes search my face for a long moment, "Is that why you came to me last?"

I nod, feeling a little shy myself. She thinks about that for a moment, and I can't tell if she's happy about that information or not.

"Well, when you got there I was just so excited. I had spent the past couple of days imagining all the ways it would go and how it would feel like to be able to, like, look into your face and have you there looking back at me. And then you were there, right in front of me," a smile that looks like wonder crosses her face, "I couldn't believe it. And you were talking to me and it seemed like you kind of liked me, and then…"

"I freaked," I supplied. Brittany nods, looking down.

"And then you were just.. gone.. and I didn't know if I had said or done something wrong. I had built this up to something in my head and I didn't know what to do. I think, other than the first week or two, that was the only time I really felt bad about what I was doing. Because here I _finally_ meet you and I could tell that you liked me, but then you thought about what kind of person I actually was and couldn't go through with it."

The sadness in her face was breaking my heart, "For the record, I more than just sort of liked you. That was the problem, really," I shifted in my seat, "because in my head, I wasn't sure whether to think of that night as like, an interview, or an audition or what. And then you were there and I was feeling all these things I didn't expect to feel. Things that it would probably not be a good idea to feel when I didn't know whether you were really into me, or just, like, really good at making people feel like that. And I just.. wanted it to be real so badly, and I was scared. Because my heart was telling me something and my head was telling me something else and I was kind of terrified because I didn't know which to believe."

She takes in my explanation, eyes still focused sadly on the hands in her lap.

"I didn't sleep that night. And the next day I called Sue and told her I wasn't taking any more out calls. And that was it. Like, cold turkey. I took this job teaching Jazzercise super early in the morning so I could still have my days free and started auditioning like crazy, for anyone who would see me. I even tried out for a high school play, because all I saw was a sign about auditions for _A Chorus Line_ and I got excited," she giggles a little sheepishly, "I got halfway through _Dance Ten, Looks Three_ before they made me stop." I don't know whether to laugh, or wish I could turn back time to be there to see it. "And then I saw something about a workshop, and I didn't know what that was, I thought maybe we were supposed to entertain guys who worked on cars or something. But I went and did my favorite audition piece and they were all whispering to each other, which usually meant that they really liked, me, or really didn't. Then they gave me a scene to act and I hadn't really slept in about four days, since I was taking every class I could get because my rent was almost due, so I was sort of stumbling and squinting trying to read it and they all kept laughing," she shrugged with a roll of her eyes, "but, like, in a good way. So I just tried to keep them laughing and saying whatever came into my head when they asked me questions. Then the next thing I knew, they told me I got the part."

There's a proud little grin on her face and I want to hug her to celebrate, just because I wasn't there to hug her when she got it.

"And then I showed up for the first rehearsal and Rachel was there and I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I was so super scared, because I knew she recognized me from Sue's party and I thought I was going to lose the job after everything. But she didn't say anything at all. Just sort of smiled at me in a way that was only sorta creepy for a few days."

I chuckled, "You get used to that, eventually."

"And then one day she came up and said hi, and told me I was really talented, like we were just meeting for the first time and I knew it was going to be cool. Then a couple of days later, she asked me if I wanted to get a coffee at our lunch break. I thanked her for not saying anything bad to the director and producers about me. Since I couldn't help myself, I asked her how she knew you and she told me about high school and everything. And then I remembered seeing her in that youtube video of your Nationals performance." Her eyes grow wide for a second, and she adds, "But I didn't actually say that, because I didn't want to weird her out or anything."

Smirking a little, I can't imagine Rachel being anyone but thrilled that someone recognized her from that performance, but she's launched completely into her story and I can't do anything but try to keep up.

"She told me that she was worried about you, because you worked so hard and you had a hard time meeting people because of the fame thing. And she just thought having the chance to spend time with someone would have been nice for you. I sort of blurted out how much I liked you and then she got this strange squinty look and I thought somebody had, like, farted or something but she said she had this crazy idea. That she thought maybe you liked me but were just scared and if you got the chance to know me, then maybe we could be friends, too. All of a sudden, it kind of felt like maybe I got a another chance at the fate thing. So when she said you had been sad, I said I always watched Disney movies when I was sad and she thought that was a really cool idea." Brittany chews on her lip, a guilty look flashes across her face, "But then I kind of screwed it up, because there you were looking all rumpled up and super hot, and were just _right there_, and I thought this might be the one chance I had to know what it felt like to kiss you."

I feel like I'm living that day over again, hearing it from her side. My body flushes at little bit, like it remembers pretty well too.

"Rachel was kind of upset with me, and I knew, like, I was so stupid for screwing everything up again, 'cause you were so mad. Then she came running into rehearsal one morning with her phone and just grabbed me and handed me her phone. I got so excited for a second because I thought it was you."

"But it was Kurt," I say, beginning to understand.

She nods, "He said he didn't really know what to tell me other than that you wanted me to come over. I was so excited I said yes before he could even finish explaining. He was so cute, trying to ask me to ask me if I understood the situation without actually saying anything about sex. I thought about it for a minute and told him I would meet with you on two conditions. The first was that no one was going to pay me." I suck in a breath, because yeah I'd been sort of assuming that part, but it was still a strange feeling to know it was the truth.

"And what was the second?" I still feel a little incredulous.

"That it was my choice whether to tell you the truth. And, well, you know why I didn't."

Honestly, I still didn't completely understand why. But given the fact that I was the one who really put the whole thing in motion, it wasn't like I exactly had the moral high ground here. But then, she said she was afraid of my reaction and I suppose the fact that our first two meetings ended with me bolting and then exploding at Rachel might have not left the best impression of my general stability.

"And then he started talking about flowers blossoming in the moonlight or something, and sounded really embarrassed, which I didn't really understand why he was talking about gardening. I mean, not that I haven't seen people be into some stuff that was super weird and I didn't think you were like that. So I just told him that I really liked you, and I'd stay as long as you wanted me to."

The thought that she was more comfortable with me thinking she was a prostitute makes my head ache a little bit. But then again, I guess was more comfortable thinking she was one, too.

"But Kurt's been really sweet. I met him at the party when we got our sponsor and a the theater and even though he knew about everything, he seemed really cool about it. Though he did keep asking me if I color blind."

I'm not sure whether to be flattered or horrified that most of the people who are closest to me were willing to go along with the deception, or just angry with myself for not seeing it earlier.

The rest of the flight is spent in much lighter conversations, as though we both silently agreed that subjects like Rachel's insanity and the new season of Once Upon a Time, which I haven't watched, but apparently it involves fairy tales come to life and it's adorable how Brittany gushes about it, were a nice diversion from the heavier topics we had been dealing with lately. Really, I would probably sit around and let her read me a selection of Mother Goose stories if it meant I got to listen to her and look at her sweet smile. For so long, we have been having conversations that didn't have much to do with talking. We let our actions, our bodies, say things that we were too caught up in our own fears to be able to put into words.

It's not until she finally falls asleep leaning over on my shoulder that I sit back and let myself think about the past few hours. I stare out the window, at the stars, at the clouds that sometimes obscure them, and let my mind go back to the beginning and trying to brush away all my old preconceptions and assumptions and replace them with the truth. It feels a little like trying to reorganize my memories, to shuffle and sort them and throw some of them out to be replaced by something better.

Only then do I let myself start thinking about this trip. I'm supposed to tape an episode of _Storytellers,_ and I have been trying my best to not obsess too much about what I'm going to say, when I talk about _Mirror, Mirror_. Kurt tells me that for the first time, whether to come out or not is my choice. No one will be doing backflips at my label if I do, but with the time and effort they have put into the new album, and then this sudden burst of interest, they are willing to at least ride it out and see how it goes.

This whole thing feels almost like a rebirth for me. A chance to do it all over again and define my own path rather than let myself be led around on a diamond encrusted leash. And now that I have this chance, I feel.. completely, fucking terrified. Because now there are no more excuses. I still have most of the songs from this album to feel appropriately scornful about, but then what? My career has grown to proportions there's just no way to sit back and comprehend. And as I watch the stars rush by, I realize that my career may as well be a massive jet, careening through the sky. And I've been suddenly plopped into the captain's seat, looking around with wide eyes at dials and knobs and levers that I have no idea how to use, and wonder how it is I could be expected to fly it.

It's easy enough to criticize where you are going and how you get there when you're sitting in the back. But now, suddenly I feel responsible, not just for me, but for all the people who are on the stupid flight with me. I'm supposed to take us somewhere worthwhile, and hopefully not crash and burn in the process.

I also wonder suddenly what it would mean for Brittany to be in a relationship with me, and get a VIP seat on my flying deathtrap. I'm entirely sure that she is going to get more than her share of crazy directed at her, because if there's one thing I've come to accept about my fans, it's that they have an overabundance of crazy that they are more than happy to share with the world. And now, if I were to just come bursting out of the closet, proclaiming my love for this quirky, adorable girl, then how would they respond to that? Would they blame her, say that she had corrupted me or something? Even if I explain what _Mirror, Mirror_ was really about, all my years of willingly lying by omission, or sometimes just lying outright, are going to come back to haunt me. Or worse, haunt Brittany. Because I'm worried that some people are not going to be able to distinguish my sexuality from the person I'm actually having sex _with_.

Would that effect the career she's trying to build for herself? Or even _Checkmate!, _which would screw up not only Brittany's dreams, but Rachel's too.

I know they say there's no such thing as bad publicity, but I am quite sure that if they get a few dozen angry fangirls, or conservative wackjobs, outside of the stage door every day it's not exactly going to be good for business, even in New York.

Now, when I actually feel like I've stumbled across something amazing with Brittany, I'm suddenly reminded of all the reasons why I never let myself look before.

And how exactly do I voice these fears to Brittany without sound like a paranoid freak myself? It's not like she hasn't had more than enough drama on her own. Now I'm going to dump the attention of everyone who has an opinion, good or bad, about an out celebrity on her doorstep. Maybe even literally. I'll be lucky if she doesn't run screaming off into the night, even if she has been crushing on me since she was a teenager.

Remember way back when I said be careful what you wish for?

Yeah_. _

_Fuck._


	19. Chapter 19

_Well, home sick today, which sucks. But on the bright side, plenty of time to write. lol I not only finished the first draft of the final chapter of Mirror, but started a new piece I think you're going to like._

_Can't tell you the title yet (would be a spoiler), but it will be a companion piece/sequel to this story, told from Brittany's perspective, starting in the past and moving into the future._

_Not sure if I'll be far enough along to start posting when I finish posting the last chapter of Mirror, but I'll at least give you the prologue at that point, since you know I like to have enough of a cushion to post regularly._

_But in the meantime, here's another double to celebrate accomplishment. ;)  
_

* * *

What could I do? It's not like I can cast a spell like a witch in one of Brittany's fairy tales and make everyone forget about me all of a sudden. Or not care about my private life. Even if I wanted to land the career deathtrap gently somewhere, nice and safe, and hope it quickly fades into obscurity, I don't even know how to do that.

And then, what about my music? I've just remembered what it feels like to really sing one of my own songs, my own way. I'm not sure I'm ready to lose that completely, either.

Brittany seems to sense the change in my mood when she wakes up just outside of LAX. I tell her that I'm tired and that I didn't sleep much. She accepts it with a curious smile, and I realize suddenly to that there is going to be a downside to having someone who can see inside of me. Because as much as I've longed for that, I've also hidden a lot of things away in the safety of my own little world. I've gotten used to being able keep my secrets, to keep those that can see inside still far enough at arm's length to be out of my comfort zone when I choose to.

Letting someone in means… letting someone in. How do I even do that?

Walking through the airport is a little awkward, because Brittany keeps leaning closer to me, wanting to talk about something she's noticed, or something she's excited about seeing and my instinct is to pull away little. My eyes scan the crowd around us constantly, looking for that opportunist with a cell phone looking for a money shot. She's grown a little quiet by the time we get to the car, and sits far enough away from me in the back of the car that I know she's upset. I chew my lip and eye the driver for a minute or two before I raise the glass and make sure the intercom is turned off. With the time change, dawn is a still long way off on this coast, and I'll take the darkness as a gift for the moment.

She looks at me curiously when I scoot over closer to her, and gasps quietly in surprise when I slide my leg over to straddle her lap. She closes her eyes, waiting for a kiss. They pop back open again when I deliver a short one to the tip of her nose.

"I wanted to explain something," I start, hoping like crazy that gift of hers for understanding me is still in effect, "the stuff in the airport, stuff in public really, I need you to know that I'm just trying to protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

I blow out a long sigh and sit back, my arms still resting on her shoulders. "From the crazy that is my life. Or really, from the crazy that is the way the public reacts to my life. If I do come out, Brittany, and people realize we are together, then that's outing you too. And on, like, a global scale."

Her head tilts in confusion, "I don't care about that."

"I'm afraid you would, once you experienced some of the crazy first hand. Seriously, my mother still has to replant the flower beds around her house at least five or six times a year because of the stalker paparazzi leeches that are after some old photograph of me when I was a kid, or a shot of my old room. I even offered to buy her a huge fence or something, but then she said she'd feel like a prisoner. And all that was when I was just a celebrity. If I become an out celebrity.. yeah, I'm pretty sure we're going to find the level of insanity dialed up even more."

"Well," she puts her hands on my waist, "what could they actually do to me?"

I roll my eyes, "They could stalk you online, shove cameras in your face on the street, dig around your private life…I've had all of that happen to me before."

Brittany chews her lip for a long moment before asking quietly, "Are you worried they are going to find out about me?"

I blink, blink again, then feel like an idiot because no I hadn't been worried about that at all. But then again, "I don't really think so. I mean, I hope it would never be an issue at all. But you have a right to know what the price of being with me actually is, Brittany. And you have to make the decision of whether or not that's what you want."

"I just want you," she says it like a plea, with tears at the corners of her eyes.

"I want you, too," my forehead rests against hers as I stare into those amazing eyes.

"Well, that's enough, isn't it? I mean, that's somewhere we can start." Somehow, Brittany's bright-eyed optimism is more heartbreaking to me than a whole week's worth of Rachel's starry-eyed ideas of romance. Maybe because I think, despite everything, she actually means it.

"We're just going to have to figure it out. But for now, I think we should just try to be careful in public. I mean, maybe try and ease people into it or something."

"How would we do that?"

"I don't know," I rub my forehead against hers a little, chuckling suddenly, "maybe we should call your dad. He's a magician, right? Maybe he's got a trick up his sleeve, something to make all this disappear." I'm happy for the grin and small giggle that gets me.

But seriously, I'd let the man stuff me into whatever box he wanted if he had the right illusion to help me find a way to work this out for both of us. Brittany smiles, like we've worked everything out and I shift a little uneasily, worried about what happens when Alice gets a good look at the general fucked-upedness of Wonderland.

She studiously avoids any physical contact when we get to the hotel, walking a few paces behind me with a polite but bored expression on her face, while she randomly checks her phone. I realize that she's playing a role now. To anyone watching, she would look like a PA, or some other lackey.

She's performing her own magic trick, making herself invisible and inconspicuous as she follows someone into a hotel in the middle of the night.

I don't even have to wonder if this is a role she's played before.

And I'm really not sure which part of that bothers me more. The fact that I'm getting a good look at some baggage of hers I would rather not think about, even if it's in the past, or the fact that it's my own baggage that made it necessary. Once we're in the elevator, I make it a point to move closer and slide my arm around her, resting my head on her shoulder as the weight of the past few days and a night of no rest starts to catch up with me. I whimper softly when she pulls away just before the elevator dings, once more slipping effortlessly into her role. I sigh, and lead the way to our room.

Brittany seems subdued when we finally make it into the relative safety of the room, and I find myself wondering if her little performance out there stirred up some bad memories for her.

"Hey, you okay?" I can't bring myself to ask if she's sorry that she came with me. I should have thought of all this before I made the offer.

"Yeah," she shrugs, "just tired."

"Me too. I'm beyond tired, actually." I eye the bed with a little bit of longing, "But I don't know if going to bed right now would make me feel better or worse, when I have to get up in a couple of hours anyway."

Brittany moves closer, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, "You know, I think we could come up with a way to make sure it you felt better."

I chuckle and shake my head a little, before she leans in to kiss me.

It feels.. different from the times we have kissed before. Softer, almost tentative. Like now, after everything, she seems worried about how I'm going to respond to her. Like, now that I know the truth, it won't be as interesting to me as the fantasy was.

Seriously, screw that.

I reach for her hair and kiss her harder, enjoying the needy little whimper it brings from inside of her. I like it so much I dedicate myself to hearing it again. But before my tired brain can work up a plan of attack, Brittany launches an attack of her own. Well, really more of a full frontal assault.

I'm not even really sure how I wind up naked on my back in the middle of the bed, but I can't think of a reason to complain about it.

I'm also not entirely sure at what point I pass out, though I do have a memory of her moaning into my mouth as she rode my leg before I blacked out.

And then I'm in the middle of a dream where I'm chasing the sound of children giggling at the end of a long hallway. I keep trying to find them, but the hallway seems to shift and grow endless, and they are always just out of my sight.

My phone wakes me up after only a couple of hours, my brain still foggy with the half-remembered dream. I search blindly in the direction of the sound, and after a few tries I finally manage to put the phone to my ear.

"'lo?"

"Santana, why are you sleeping in the middle of the day?" Even Kurt's shrill can't quite knock the fuzzy feeling out of my head.

"'m tird."

"Well, then you should have slept a little bit on the plane or at least not done whatever it was you and Brittany are doing that you are never, ever to tell me about."

I roll my eyes and scrub my fingers through my hair as I sit up, looking around for Brittany. I notice a light on in the bathroom with a sigh.

"Aw, but then how am I supposed to pay you back for the glorious mindfuck you conspired to help foist on me?" I mumble, feeling a little petulant.

"Yes, well, it all worked out and you can pay me back with some diabolical revenge scheme later, Emily. For now, there's someone else who wants to talk to you and he happens to own both of our asses, so get up, get presentable, and get your ass over Sugarland. Like, now. Mr. Motta does not like to be kept waiting." I frown, because it's not that I haven't been curious about the house where Mr. Motta apparently caters to his daughter's slightest whim like some kind of Willy Wonka Warbucks, but at the same time, I have some kind of deep seated fear that the place is actually like the witch's house from Hansel and Gretel, where if you actually eat anything there, you're doomed to wind up in the pot.

And okay, it's possible I listened to Brittany talk about fairy tales too much this morning.

"What does he want?" I try once again to shake the sleep out of my head. I've only met the man, and his annoyingly high strung daughter, once since he bought the entire label because, if you believe the rumors, it was the only way to get Sugar the record contract she wanted. Sort of like a really, really, really expensive pony she wanted for her birthday. There were also rumors that had to do with the mafia, and how he made his money. Either way, the idea that he wanted to see me was a little bit freaky. He rarely had any direct involvement in the artists themselves unless it had something to do with Sugar.

"Gosh, Santana, I forgot to ask him at our last spa day. Look, whatever it is, you've only got a few more hours to the taping anyway, so hopefully it won't be a long meeting. But you need to get there." He pauses for a moment, then adds, "Quickly."

"Fine," I grumble, feeling incredibly uninspired to kiss the ass of Moneybags Motta.

I hang up and make my way unsteadily toward the bathroom where I find Brittany neck deep in bubbles in the hot-tub sized bathub, happily scooting a little ship made out of paper around in front of her. It is… almost obscenely adorable.

"Hey Britt," I say, suddenly feeling a lot more awake.

"Oh, you're up! You wanna share?" She pats the water, clearing me a very inviting place in the bubbles. I eye it wistfully.

"I wish I could," I hold up my phone with a pout, "Kurt just called, apparently I've been summoned to the house of the guy who owns the label and I'm supposed to be there, like, five minutes ago."

"That sucks," she pouts.

"It does," I agree, moving to examine the ravages of my makeup with a sigh.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"You don't have to, Britt. Seriously, I don't think I'll be there for long. Or I hope not anyway, and there's no reason you should have to put up with the crazy of that place, too."

Her eyes grow huge suddenly, "Oh my gosh, are you going to Sugarland?!"

I give a weak smile, not enthused by her enthusiasm.

"I would so love to see it! I promise I'll be quiet. They'll never know I'm there."

I think back to the lobby and find that I believe her. But I also realize that's not at all what I want.

"No, don't," I say with a firm nod that's almost more to myself, "I don't want you to feel like you have to do that. I mean, I'm pretty sure most people associated with the label have at least some idea that I'm gay. If only because they've been obsessed with keeping it a secret. But now, I don't think it matters that much. And this isn't like something with the public or the press. They can deal. And if they can't, then I'm better off somewhere else anyway."

Brittany shifts, sitting up further in the tub until there is an entirely distracting view of her chest peeking through the bubbles.

"Really?" She looks almost like she's afraid to believe it. I sigh and reach out to take her hand and pull her out of the water. "But, oh wait," she frowns, "I don't really have anything to wear. I probably should just let you…"

"I'm sure Kurt and my stylist packed me more clothes than I would need in an average month. Come on, we're close enough to the same size." I reach out and give her a peck on the lips. She counters by grabbing my neck and burying her tongue in my mouth.

As responses go, I'm gonna have to say I'm cool with that.


	20. Chapter 20

I chuckle as I pull away, "Go take a look and see if there's anything you like in my bags, I've got to try and do something about my makeup." When I turn to the mirror, I feel her move up behind me, pressing her wet, naked and still slightly bubbly, body against me. I hum contentedly and lean back against her as we look together at our reflection in the mirror.

I really don't think I've ever been happier in my whole life, and I close my eyes and lean by head back on her shoulder, giving her neck a quick kiss. When I pull back, she's still looking at us together. I reach my hand up behind me to cup her cheek.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Sure," she smiles, but it seems sad somehow, "you're just like, perfect. Everything about this is just so perfect."

I chuckle a little, feeling confused. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No. No, of course not. I'm just being silly."

"Hey," I stop her before she can turn around, "no. Tell me what's wrong." I don't like the idea of more secrets between us, already.

Brittany stares into my face, her amazing eyes still melancholy in a way that makes me want to do anything at all to make her really smile. "I just… sometimes, I feel like all of this is a little bit too perfect for someone like me."

The fact that it takes me a beat to realize what she means might be a bad sign, or a really good one, but I don't really know any way to make her realize that.

I could tell her that we're not all that different, but then again, I can't really understand the things she's had to do in her life. I'm not sure I want to, though I'd try if that's what she needed.

"Do you want to know what I see when I look at you, Brittany?" I start, looking her squarely in the eye. She chews her lip like she has to think about it, then finally nods timidly. "I see the only person I have ever known who has had to deal with darkness in this world without letting it take away your innocence."

She scoffs, "Santana… whatever I am, it's not innocent."

The way she says it takes me aback. Because it's the first time, even counting the day we met, when I could actually see it. When it wasn't just some vague idea that could be conveniently romanticized away, when I needed to. It was the side of her that I had always been so afraid of knowing. But it's undeniable, there in her eyes, something that looks more than jaded, more than numb. It's stark. Someone who maybe had to let a little bit too much darkness inside of her to be able to survive.

It makes me.. amazingly sad. I try my best to shake it off.

"But there is a part of you that still sees hope in the world, Brittany," I argue, "if not, you never would have gone out to all those auditions and given up on something that was making you unhappy. You didn't just give up, or wallow. And trust me, I know a thing or two about wallowing. You saw something you didn't like about your life and you did what you had to do to change it. Not for me, or for anyone else. You did it for yourself. Because somewhere in there," I lay gentle fingers above her heart, the skin now covered with goosebumps, "you knew that there was something better out there for you to find and you just needed something to make you ready to start looking. So whatever that is, maybe innocence isn't the word, but whatever it is, Brittany you've got more of it than anyone I've ever met in my entire life."

Her eyes grow watery again as they look between my eyes over and over again, like she is trying to find an argument against the version of her I am painting.

"I know a little bit about what it's like to make choices you regret, because it seems like the right thing, or someone makes you feel like you don't have a choice. And I know what it's like to let yourself get trapped inside of that cycle until it seems like there's no way out. But I also know that no matter how long it took you to get there, when you made the decision you were going to change, that was it. No excuses. No turning back. I don't know if you really understand how few people in the world would have been able to do that. How few would have even thought to try."

Now, she's crying and I'm about half way there and this is so not the best time to actually be having this conversation, because I'm sure I'm due another call from Kurt at any moment. There's a childish part of myself that wishes we could just go back to random, bland conversations that didn't end in tears.

"So, go on, go pick out something you want to wear and lets go see what a life-sized Candyland looks like." I kiss her again, and give her a little smack on the butt that gets me a small, if slightly watery, giggle.

It's about half an hour later that we're both dressed in what Kurt would call casual chic. Well, he'd probably frown a little bit and emphasize that Brittany was wearing _colorfully_ casual chic, but if she likes purple slacks with yellow shoes, then I accept that about her and only leer slightly at the way they make her ass look.

Okay, more than slightly, but c'mon.

And by the time our car stops at the massive gates to Sugarland, her mood seems to have brightened immeasurably as she practically gaped at the house in wonder. A security guard walks up to the window, tapping politely for me to roll it down, and then with a profoundly wry grin he handed me a candy bar.

My brow furrowed as I looked at it, because the thing had purple hearts all over it and was actually labeled, I shit you not, as a _Sugarbaby_.

I handed it to Brittany, who looked delighted, and glanced back up at him, "Really?"

"You don't have to eat it," he explained with a little smirk, "in fact it would probably be better if you didn't, because I think the lawsuit is still pending." I blinked, and looked at Brittany, who had gone from staring at it excitedly to trying to find a discreet way to no longer be touching it, "but I would advise that you open it." He motions toward the bar. "And enjoy your time at Sugarland." The words come out with the same sarcastic bite as a really annoyed flight attendant pointing out the exits. I feel relatively certain that actually saying that phrase to each and every visitor is actually a requirement of this job.

Oh joy, this should be fun.

Together we crack open the wrapper a little warily to find… a freakin' golden ticket inside. Like, seriously. There is a little speech printed on the gold foil paper granting admission to Sugarland for me and a guest. I tell Brittany I'd be happy to be the guest, which makes her giggle again. And by the time we reach the enormously garish doorway, which I'm pretty sure is made of marble, I'm not really surprised when it seems to creak and slide open on its own.

I have a powerful urge to just turn around and run as fast as I can in the other direction.

It's not only that the entryway is dark and a little ominous, but the whole vibe of this place just looks like someone's best efforts at creating some kind of magical oasis, that is cute and amazing, but also just that tiny bit of creepy to keep you honest. When a deep voice says, "Ticket, please," I can only roll my eyes and wave it out in front of me, like a flag of surrender.

Light floods the room suddenly and a bouncing, giggling girl with a bow larger than her actual head is bounding toward us. She's probably not that much younger than I am, but whatever she is, it's not an adult yet.

"You're here!" Sugar nearly shrieks and I try not to wince as she wraps herself around me like a sparkly barnacle that doesn't actually plan on letting go right away. I give Brittany a brief, slightly panic-strickened look. She bites back a grin but comes to my rescue.

"Oh my gosh, this place is so amazing! Thank you so much for letting us come to see it!"

Sugar detaches and turns to look at Brittany curiously. But the praise is lapped up and Brittany gets a much less enthusiastic hug and welcome. Sugar snatches the ticket out of my hand and throws it in a nearby trashcan that looks like it's nearly filled with golden tickets. Britt and I share a look before she can't help but ask, "Do you, like, not have anyone to empty that or something?"

Glancing around to see what the holdup is, Sugar throws up a dismissive wave. "Oh, Daddy likes me to keep those so he can melt them back down again. Something about recycling."

I gape, looking back at a trashcan of actual _golden _tickets with the surreal feeling that I've just stepped into another dimension. We'll call it the 'Too Fucking Rich for It To Actually Be Healthy' zone. Sugar leads us through a huge sitting room, where we pass a servant who appears to actually be dressed as Mickey Mouse. Mickey is currently dusting what I'm going to assume is some kind of modern art sculpture, but looks to me like two oil drums doing the nasty, and I find myself edging closer to Brittany. She chuckles and bumps shoulders with me, but seems happy enough to stick herself right by my side.

And, while I can't be completely sure, I could have sworn I heard a soft voice crying "help me!" before we turned the corner and Mickey disappeared.

A few minutes, Goofy, Donald and Wall-E (seriously) later, we come into a surprisingly laid back wood-lined office, where Mr. Motta sits behind his desk. He's small and thin, with graying hair spiked up from his head and a suit that probably cost more than your average semester of higher education, and skin that looks more baked than tanned.

"Santana!" He stands up to hold out his hand, which I take awkwardly, "I'm glad you could finally make it." I cringe a little, because I'm pretty sure that finally sounded like a warning, somehow, somehow for not making it quicker.

"Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Motta." I try for a placid smile and when he glances at Brittany, she gives a fair imitation of mine.

"Well, Daddy and Santana have to talk boring business stuff," Sugar commandeers Brittany's hand and she lets herself, reluctantly, be dragged away, "Come on, let me show you the petting zoo!" The words petting zoo seem to clear up at least a good part of that reluctance, and she turns to give a helpless shrug before letting herself be led away.

I watched her with a fond smile I couldn't help if I tried, before steeling myself as I remembered suddenly where I actual am. I turned back to Sugar's Daddy with my best game face on.

"My manager said you wanted to see me, I'm afraid I don't have much time, though. I have a taping of Storytellers in a couple of hours." It's nothing like a blatant effort to get me the hell out of Creepyland as quickly as possible, I swear.

"Oh, I'll just call and have them reschedule it for tomorrow." He waves his hand dismissively and I try my best to not let my eyes bug out as he lifts up a phone and does just that. He beckons me to sit in an oversized leather chair while he calmly turns an entire set upside down on a whim and then turns back to me as though it was nothing, "I've been hearing all sorts of interesting things about you lately, Santana, so I thought I'd better meet the girl who all the buzz was about."

I have absolutely no intention of mentioning the fact that we've met before.

I mean, would you?

"Well, here I am." I give a nervous smile.

"So I see."

I gulp. Just a little.

"Now, my baby girl tells me that she saw a bunch of videos from some sort of concert you gave a few days ago."

I shrug, probably a bit too broadly, "I.. uh.. thought it'd be an interesting way to get publicity for new album." And, y'know, bare my soul to the girl I'm in love with, but I'm gonna have to assume I should keep that part to myself.

"Well, Sugar wanted a copy of that new album. She told me she doesn't like your glitter song. The version you did at the concert was better. So I want you to re-record it." Mr. Motta leans back casually, lacing his hands together and putting them behind his head.

Okay, now I really do gape. "You want to push back the release?" I may not be a business mogul, but I'm pretty sure capitalizing on momentum is a good thing.

He frowns, shaking his head. "Why would I want that?"

I feel like I'm having a conversation in a foreign language. "Well, the album release is in, like, a week. They already finished up editing the video."

"So, reshoot it, too," he offers with another shrug, as though that were a perfectly reasonable suggestion.

"Reshoot it.. before it's released?" He nods. "In _one week_?" The look I'm getting is edging toward bored and impatient now, so I'm just going to have to assume I am understanding him correctly.

I open my mouth to ask him if he had the slightest idea how much money all this would actually cost. Then I stop and look around a little bit and realize how little he would actually care.

Then, it hits me all at once. The chance to re-record _Glitter Pop, _turning it into the parody it was always screaming to become.

I suddenly want to hug Sugar again and let her barnacle her little ass to me as much as she wants. I can even picture how a video would work. We could shoot some performance footage and cut in shots of the original video, poking good natured fun at it and trying to keep a straight face when we pretend like it was always supposed to be a song making fun of mindless pop music. I actually sat around in my trailer and fantasized about doing something like that before they drug me out to shoot the scene where I had to run through Central Park tossing glitter on everyone around me like fairy dust to make them start dancing like idiots.

"Oh, and your girlfriend's cute. Good luck with that." He gives me a wink, then clicks his tongue in a way that sounds like it's straight out of a gangster parody.

I realize I've been dismissed.

I blink a few times, like I'm trying to make sense of the world again, and then turn around to head out and look for Brittany still very much in a daze. I feel like this is some kind of dream and I want to get out of here and get to work before I have to wake up again. I've just been essentially ordered to go and remake my album into something I could actually be proud of. It's literally all I can do to not jump around squealing like Rachel does every year at Broadway Barks.

I need to find Brittany. Like, immediately. She was the one who inspired me to sing my song again, and while I'm not really sure how it's managed to set all this into motion, I've got every intention of kissing her senseless the first moment I see her.

After stumbling across Goofy again, I get directions to the petting zoo and literally skip my way down the garish hallway, beyond excited to share my news.

I'm stopped very suddenly when I finally find it. Sugar has disappeared somewhere, and Brittany is on her knees, holding baby lamb. I take in the scene in confusion for a moment, because the lamb is suitably white, fluffy and adorable, cuddled up in her arms. Another quick glance around the room gives me no more clues either.

Because Brittany looks heartbroken, and I have no idea why.


	21. Chapter 21

_Sorry for the later posting, this was by far the most difficult chapter to write (and re-write a time or two lol) _

_Interested to see what people think. _

* * *

I practically run over to her.

"Britt, what's wrong?" I check her, then the damn lamb. It doesn't look like it's bleeding or anything, "Are you alright?"

She takes a deep breath, eyes trailing over the way her fingers slide through the soft wool, "I'm okay," she whispers, in a way that makes me sure she is not okay at all.

"Where's Sugar, Brittany? Did something happen?"

All I get is a little shrug and murmur, "She ran off because her new baby Koala was supposed to be delivered or something."

Okay, no clue there. Kneeling here next to Brittany, all I can think is that I don't know how to approach this. I'm not sure I know her well enough to know if now is the time to push for an answer, or back off and let her tell me what is wrong in her own time.

Before I can decide what to do, Brittany makes the choice for me, "Can we maybe go now?"

I guess later wins. And really, as I look around and notice that even the cute corner of Crazyland here is still just a little creepy, getting the hell out sounds like a good enough plan to me.

"Sure," I rub her back soothingly, "do you want to go back to the hotel?" I watch her carefully, looking for any sign of what might be wrong. She settles the lamb back down on a fluffy blanket, and it lets out a little, unhappy sound at losing the source of warm cuddles. She pets it one last time, her eyes filled with something that looks like longing before she squares her shoulders and pushes herself to her feet. I stand up next to her, not missing the way she doesn't want to look me in the eye and try really, really hard to not get frustrated.

"I thought we had to get to your concert thing."

I shake my head, like I even give a crap about that right now, "It's been postponed until tomorrow."

That seems to shake her out of her mood for a second as her eyes meet mine now, filled with alarm, "Is.. Is something wrong? Did something happen?"

"No," sighing, I run my fingers through my hair in frustration, "or, nothing bad. It's…" my amazing news feels like it tastes bitter in my mouth all of a sudden, "look, let's just get out of here, I'll explain in the car, okay?"

She agrees, searching my face for something even as I'm doing the same.

We make our way back through the temple of excess, so distracted we get lost a couple of times and I'm half expecting a dancing broomstick to come out and lead us back to the entrance any minute now. But we find it soon enough, and I have to stifle the urge to just grab Brittany's hand and bolt for the car like we're escaping some sort of twisted funhouse.

Once in the relative safety of the car, I can't help but notice Brittany's body language has grown disturbingly defensive. I debate between pushing for an answer or trying to distract her with what I hope will be good news and when she looks at me with wary eyes, I decide that maybe it's better to answer the question there first and hope that it makes her relax enough to open up herself.

"The taping has been moved to tomorrow because I have to get ready to go back into the studio," she seems to relax a little bit as I cautiously explain the opportunity that has been handed to me. It hits me then how much we actually have to do and as I'm talking I fire off a quick text to Kurt explaining the basics so he can have a few minutes to freak out before he has to start helping me organize all this into becoming an actual reality.

"That's amazing, Santana," her eyes are warm and it's clear she means it. I scoot closer and take her hand.

"I have you to thank for this, you know that, right?" Brittany looks startled by that. "You were the one who inspired me to sing my song, my way. Who helped me remember what it felt like to know that I had something to say." I take another deep breath and decide that if I want answers from Brittany, then she deserves full disclosure from me first, "I totally lied about that concert being to promote my album. I did it for you, because I was too big of a coward to just sit you down and sing it to you when I wasn't sure how you were going to react, or if it would be too much to just lay on you. The rest of it I just threw together at the last minute, just going with my gut for once instead of worrying about how it was going to be received because I didn't even care about any of that. It was all just an excuse to sing my song again. To sing it for you."

Brittany's watching me now with something like wonder in her face. I feel encouraged, like maybe I can shake her out of whatever was bothering her.

"And now, it's like after all these years of being so careful and conscious of every little thing I put out there, all it took was me being ready to let go and just express myself to suddenly get the chance to be an artist again. I don't know how long it would have taken me to be ready to do that if I hadn't met you. There was always some excuse why I couldn't do it, why it could never work. I was too scared of losing what I had to think about taking any kind of real risk. I forgot what it was like to even want to. And then suddenly here this amazing girl comes into my life and helps me remember what it's like to want to open up something inside of me and put it out there, helps me remember why I wanted any of this in the first place. Not just an excuse to have people attention. But because I wanted somebody to really see me, to know me. And it all just got so lost along the way." Leaning over, I kiss her cheek, and then press my lips against hers gently, "But Brittany, I really want to know you, too. Can you please tell me what's wrong?"

I think for just a moment that she's going to, before the car pulls to a stop in front of the hotel and she pulls away to open the door.

I'm beginning to get really frustrated now. It's not that I don't understand being afraid, but I was hoping we were at least trying to open up. This time, when we're heading through the lobby, I don't let her walk too far in front of me, or do her best to disappear behind. I jog forward enough to loop my arm around hers and pull her closer, way beyond caring if anyone notices or what they might have to say. What does it matter anyway, really? If they don't like it, screw 'em.

The elevator ride is quiet, and just tense enough to be uncomfortable. I'm trying to formulate another plan of attack as I close the door behind us, only to find myself pressed face first into it with a little grunt. One hand shifts up under my blouse, and the other heads for the hem of my skirt and quickly dives underneath.

I gasp against the cool surface, my eyes rolling back as I feel her lips and tongue seeking out every sensitive spot on my neck.

"Brittany…" I breathe softly as one hand dives under my bra. "Wait, I…" This moment feels so right and so wrong at the same time. As good as this feels, we need to be talking right now. When her other hand reaches my underwear, I reach out and grab her wrist, my voice a little louder, "Brittany, hang on a second."

She nearly whines into my neck and I steel myself and turn quickly to find that heartbroken look on her face again, only this time she can't seem to hold back.

"Please," she whispers desperately, "let me show you how good I can make you feel."

Hello alarm bells, sirens and maybe the odd bullhorn. "What?" I say almost incredulously.

"I want…"

I find my voice now, louder and more forceful than I think I've ever been with her, "What I want is for you to tell me what the hell is wrong. The only thing I'm feeling right now is scared, Brittany. I need you to talk to me. What happened back there? Did Sugar say something to you?"

Her eyes drop to the floor. Okay, I'm going to take that as a yes.

"What did she say? Did she threaten you or something?"

There is a subtle shake of her head, and she still won't meet my eyes when she takes a step back and leans back against the wall, sliding downward until she's on the floor with her back pressed against it. I crouch down close, still trying desperately to decipher whatever it is she doesn't want to say out loud. I've only seen her look like this a couple of times before, and both of them I was staring at her reflection in a mirror.

Oh my god.

"Brittany, did she know you from somewhere?" Her whole face crumbles and she's wracked with a sob. I fall back unceremoniously on my ass. Somehow seeing her upset makes me almost eerily calm, like I've just had ice injected into my veins. "Okay, what did she actually say? Did she want something from you, or from me or something?" My mind is racing in so many directions I'm not sure any one of them is coherent.

"I d..don't think so," knees against her chest, she buries her face in her arms, "she just blurted it out like a random thing that she remembered me from a party in New York and when she said that I knew which one she meant, because I only went to a few when I was, y'know, working," she peeks up at me sadly, "and then started talking about baby koalas."

Okay, so not blackmail or anything. I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or bad. I mean, if she just wanted to be in my video or something, I wouldn't have had a problem with that. Then I think back to the way Mr. Motta mentioned my girlfriend. It didn't seem like there was anything ominous in it, but I was half-way up to cloud nine, I'm not sure I would have seen it. If he knew it didn't stop him from making the offer or anything, or put any conditions on it.

"Well, if it was just some random thing, then it's probably not anything to worry about," I reason, moving over to sit by her side in the narrow entryway, "I mean, she seems sweet and all, but she's too busy building the monument to decadence here to worry about anything like that. She'll probably forget she met either of us again by tomorrow."

"That's not the point," Brittany's jaw quivers and I feel completely helpless, "if it happened like this, it could happen again. You were worried about what your past could do to me, but it's me that should have been thinking about what being with someone like me could mean for you."

"Hey, I told you…"

"I know you did, Santana, and I love that you really mean that. But, what if you finally get this chance to do things your way, and it all blows up because someone found out about me. Because they knew me, or because Sugar blurted it to someone, or because…they were a client." Her voice is trembling and my heart feels like it's smashed into the floor. I can't lie and say that thought doesn't make me a little sick, but it's not like I didn't know who I was falling for. I'd be the biggest hypocrite in the world if I held that against her now.

"Whatever happens, we'll deal with it." I say grimly, my jaw set.

"You shouldn't have to."

"Brittany, there are a probably a whole shitload of things we both had to deal with that we shouldn't have had to. If this turned out to be one of them, then we'd figure it out."

"And what if we can't?"

"What?" My heart feels like it's being slowly ripped apart in my chest. "What does that even mean?"

"What if she tells her Dad and it costs you this big chance? What if it gets out and it ruins everything for you? You were worried about how your career could affect me, but I should have been the one worrying about what mine could do to you."

"I don't care about any of that, Brittany," I'm practically pleading now.

"But I do."

It's simple, stark and immeasurably sad. I feel the power of it slice right through me like a blade.

"I…" I honestly don't know what to say, I don't know how to confront whatever demons she's carrying around inside of herself. I'm not even sure it's my place to.

I could just say screw it all, throw Mr. Motta's offer back in his face and commit career suicide for real this time. There's a part of me that wants to do just that. But then, if I did that, then what? Would I become Brittany's personal cheering section and try my best to not get noticed or bring any attention to her in the process? No matter what I do, the fame is going to be there, every bit as much as the specter of Brittany's past will be. There's no magic trick in the world to make it all just go away. And if I did pull a disappearing act now, I would probably just open both of us up to a whole new type of scrutiny, as the media and everyone else tried to figure out what happened and bringing is right back to where we are now.

Plus, would I be happy to just let everything go, now that I suddenly have the chance to do it the right way? Would I wait it out until my fame dies down and try again, working my way back up to the kind of opportunity that has just been handed to me? Would the dangers of Brittany's past being discovered be any less then?

"Tell me what to do, Brittany," I choke out, "just tell me what you want from me, how to make this better, and I will do it."

"I want you to go into that studio and make every one of your dreams come true," she says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "and I'll always know that I had some part in that."

It sounds like she's trying to say goodbye to me, and I have no intention of letting that happen.

"And then what?" I challenge, "I'd be right back where I started in the beginning, with a career I'm more proud of maybe, but I'd still be just as alone. What would any of this matter then?"

"I know you'd.."

"Don't even try a bullshit 'You'd find somebody' line with me, Brittany," I cut her off, well on my way to getting thoroughly pissed off. "I found the person I want already. Whatever anyone says, whatever they think, it doesn't matter to me."

"I know it doesn't," she shrugs helplessly, "but it matters to me. And I don't know how to make that stop. I don't know how to make this feeling I've had since I knew she recognized me go away. I just.. I just want to go home, Santana. I want to run my lines until I know them all by heart and practice ever step until it's as perfect as it can be. I can't.. I just don't know how to deal with this."

I frown a little, "Brittany, I can't leave right now. Not unless I…"

"I know."

With that, she leans forward, placing a soft, tremulous kiss on my lips. I want to argue with her, but I don't have any right to tell her how to feel. I don't know if I have a way to fix this, or even completely what it means.

It's not the end, though. That's the only thing I know.


	22. Chapter 22

We're both still sitting numbly on the floor when Kurt's ringtone finally breaks the silence. I stare at the screen for a few moments, like I can't even remember how to answer the damn thing.

When I finally answer with a gruff, "Yeah," all I get is squealing excitement on the other end and very quickly confusion over why I am not sharing the sentiment.

I sigh and stand up, moving over by the bed and quietly ask Kurt to arrange Brittany a ticket back to New York as quickly as possible, and quickly cut off the inquisition which follows.

"I didn't do anything, neither did she. I just have to stay here and work now and she needs to get back home and work on the play. It's fine, Kurt, now would you please just do it and then call me back?"

He must know better than to argue with me from my tone, because he offers an almost shockingly meek, "Ok, Santana," before he hangs up.

I take a breath, trying to clear out my head. Trying to think of anything I can say to Brittany to make this right. Part of me wants to go over there and just kiss her and make love to her until she can't feel anything but happiness, but I'm afraid that would probably do more harm than good right now.

When an idea does finally come to me, I go with it before I can bother to second guess it, I run over to the hotel phone and make a quick call down to room service and offer them an outrageous tip if they can get my order here as quickly as possible. And I really don't know if I'm doing the right thing, but it's something anyway.

Brittany told me that no one has ever treated her the way that I did, and that was part of what made her afraid to tell me the truth. I'm not entirely sure what all it means, but if she's going to leave here tonight, I'm at least going to do my very best to spoil her rotten before she does. I can't change how she feels about herself, but I can do everything possible to make her understand how I feel about her. If nothing else, that's a place to begin.

And since money still talks, the knock on our door comes just after the text from Kurt confirming her flight back to New York. The way she jumps at the noise makes me realize I should have warned her, because she looks like she's worried someone is going to come and rip her away or something.

"It's okay, Britt," I rush over and put my hand on her shoulder, taking her arm and helping her up. I open the door and smile a little bit at the table now being offered outside by a very polite looking concierge who looks like he might have actually been running down the hallway. I give him a little smile and make a mental note to up the tip from outrageous to completely obscene.

She looks completely confused when I step back to let him wheel the table inside. If he thinks anything of the emotional scene, he's discreet enough to never show it. I give him a pleased smile and then pointed look which he correctly interprets as a directive to get the hell out immediately.

"Your flight's not for a couple of hours," I tell her with my very best game face, "so I thought since I never got the chance to take you out while we were here, I'd at least order in."

The look on her face is satisfying enough that I might have to double the tip, just because.

"I don't understand."

"Well, you sit there, and I sit here and then we eat."

"But.."

I whip off the silver cover over a plate of lobster. Nice. Then another, steak. That'll do. Some salad and a couple of pieces of cake to round things out. I didn't really ask for anything specific other than the nicest dinner they could have up here in less than ten minutes.

"Look, you're hungry, aren't you?" I tilt my head down until she's willing to look me in the eye, finally giving me a small shrug. "Well then, m'lady, have a seat." I move around and hold the chair out for her. She just stares at me for a moment before I roll my eyes with a sigh, "Please sit, Brittany. I promise I'll have you to the airport in time for your flight."

"But.. why?"

"Why what?"

"Why this? I mean, I told you I have to go back." Brittany's looking at me like I just started speaking Farsi, while doing the limbo dressed as a mime.

"I know."

"But.. I mean.. If I'm leaving tonight, I can't even…"

"Brittany," I touch her back to urge her down into the chair before she says anything that's going to upset me even more, "just sit down and have a nice meal with me, please?"

"I don't understand," she says again and I have to force down every single emotion it brings up in me.

"Look Britt, all you really have to understand is that I'm sorry our trip turned out this way. And I'm sorry I can't go back with you. But I get that you have to do what you feel is right and I respect that."

She looks up at me then, fully in the face for the first time since that little airhead dragged her off to the petting zoo, and something inside me relaxes. Just a little.

"And you have my number if you ever want to talk." She looks down again. I sniff and shrug, "And if you don't, then I should warn you that whenever I can get back to New York, you can expect me to show up on your doorstep one day, with a pizza from Luigi's maybe, and you and I are going to find a way to figure this out. Even if you don't believe that now. I do."

"Why?" Brittany says it like a plea, like if I could just give her an answer she could understand, all this would be easier to accept.

"Just say.. just say it's because a long time ago, there was a lonely little girl looking into a mirror one night, when she had just gotten through being the evening's amusement ride for the boy she felt like she had to keep happy so that no one would suspect she really only liked girls. And she stared into that mirror, wondering if she would ever meet someone who would make her feel all the things she was supposed to feel." I reach out, grabbing the bottle of champagne and pouring us each a small glass. "I've waited a long time to meet you, Brittany. If I have to wait a little bit longer before you're ready, then that's what I'll do."

If anything, she looks even more terrified now, "But, I can't promise…"

"Then don't promise," I hand her a glass and wait patiently until she takes it, "I don't want that. I don't want you to say anything you don't mean. I don't want you to make any excuses for this, if it's what you need."

It's not until she's gone an hour later, with one last peck on my cheek and a look of confusion still on her face that I finally let myself slump down against the doorway and cry as much as I need to.

A quick check of my phone shows that I have had three calls trying arranging recording sessions and video shoots, seven messages from Kurt which are all varying ways of asking me what the fuck is going on. If I knew, I would tell him. I send him back a quick text asking him to pick Brittany up from the airport and not to be nosy before wandering into the bathroom.

I splash water on my face a few times, then look up into the mirror. For a moment I want to punch it, or scream, maybe cry some more. All the emotions I bottled up tight because she didn't need to have them dumped on her.

I find myself thinking back to Brittany's face when she was watching us in the mirror this morning, and realize, all at once, the other reason why she never told me she had stopped working for Sue. The one she would never have said out loud.

She didn't tell me she wasn't a call girl anymore because inside, she still feels like one.

It's the same reason she had me up against the door, trying desperately to prove to me that she could make me feel good. As though it wouldn't occur to her that just being with me can do that.

I don't know what to do for her, exactly. This is a problem that isn't really mine to fix. I stare at smears of makeup on my face and grab some tissue, wiping it away in frustration.

When my face is clean, I stare hard at it. I feel like I'm a teenager again, staring at my mirror, trying to find answer in the eyes of my reflection. Begging her for redemption, salvation, answers. It all sounds so silly to me now. It sounds like excuses.

I told Brittany tonight about that little girl, but looking back now, I see all the mistakes that she made. All the excuses there were for the things she did, as though if I'd met Brittany back then I wouldn't have been doing that same dance with Puck anyway. But is that even the truth? I probably would have just found something else to blame it on. There's would have always been an excuse, until I was the one who was ready to deal with it.

When the answer comes to me, it feels like a fire racing through my brain. It burns away doubt and hesitation and suddenly I feel calm. Almost eerily calm. Like I've been in a tailspin and suddenly learned how to right the plane again and get it back on course.

The words come so quickly, they almost make me gasp. The melody follows after almost immediately. I can hear it in my head in a way I haven't been able to hear a song I was writing in almost six years. It flows, like I'm channeling it from somewhere outside of me.

I look down at the lipstick in my bag and slowly pull off the cap, and when I'm done, I spin around quickly and head out to search for my bag, quickly digging out the ratty old notebook tucked inside.

It takes me until well into the night before I finish, and look over it one last time, wondering how I can feel so happy and so sad all at the same time. But it doesn't matter.

And it doesn't matter what time it is back in New York when I reach for my phone and tell it to make the call.

I stand in the doorway to the bathroom, looking at the mirror as it rings. I turn to lean against the frame when a voice picks up on the other end.

With the large, red letters, saying "No Excuses" streaking across the mirror behind me, I take a deep breath before I begin, "Rachel, we need to talk."

"Santana! Oh my God, what happened? I got some sort of crazy message from Kurt about Brittany coming back! What is going on? I thought.. I mean it seemed things were going okay and look I know that I should have just said it in the beginning, but she seemed so scared and I knew that if you would just get the chance to know her.."

"RACHEL!" I yell, because it's the only way to stop her rambling, "When I said we need to talk, what I really meant was that I need to talk and you need to listen. Now. Nod if you understand." I smirk a little when I know she is doing just that. I explain as quickly as I can what happened and Brittany's reaction. Rachel makes sounds of choking sobs and horrified gasps that almost make me roll my eyes. She wanted the fucking Pretty Woman fantasy for me, now she's going to help me deal with the fallout.

"The first thing I want you to do is, right now, put your clothes on and go over to her place. And then I want you to pound on her door in the annoying way you are so good at until she answers the door."

"But what if she's not home yet?" Rachel cries and I roll my eyes.

"Then wait there until she is. And once she is, you go inside you find an excuse to get her to see my therapist. Kurt's got his number. Are we clear on this so far?"

"Um.. yes.."

"You sit there with until she's ready to start talking. And then you listen to whatever she says without your romanticized bullshit. You are a good friend, Rachel. And she needs one tonight."

"Can.. can I ask something?" She sounds like a schoolgirl nervous as she tries to interrupt her teacher. "Why aren't you here? I mean, why did you let her go? Why not come back with her? I mean, come on, Santana, I know you love your fame and everything, but I really thought that she was more important to you than that."

I sigh, because I've asked myself that same thing a few thousand times in the past few hours, "Rachel, I can't leave now, and I know you won't really believe this, but it's not about the fame. This is the first time, Rachel," I sniff, squeezing my eyes shut because I am officially sick of crying, "the first time I have the slightest control in my own career since I was eighteen years old. It's everything I wouldn't have dared to dream of."

"Look, I know you love the fantasy and all, but Brittany doesn't need me to come and rescue her. She never did. She saved herself. Brittany changed her own life and now it's my turn to do the same thing. I can't erase all the mistakes I made before, and I can't stop regretting them, but I can promise myself that from this moment I'm going to do everything I can to make it right. And if I can't do that, then I don't deserve to be with her anyway."

I sink down to the floor, leaning back against the doorframe as I look at the mirror again. No excuses.

"This is my chance, maybe the only one I will ever get to decide who I am, and who I want to be. And I can't make those decisions for Brittany, but I think I can get her to understand that she can make them for herself, when she's ready to hear it."

"And when will that be?"

I chew on my lip, fiddling with the notebook in my hand.

"This show I'm taping tomorrow.. Or, well, today.. it's going to air there in a few weeks. I need you to promise me that she's going to watch it."

"Santana, what are you going to do? If she's afraid of getting noticed, then is it a good idea to make some kind of statement on national television?"

My smile is sad, a little weepy, but genuine. "Well, I think that all depends on what the statement actually is."

No excuses. Not anymore.

* * *

_So, there's one last double for the road. Final chapter is tomorrow (with a preview for the companion story, which will be called No Excuses), and I'm really excited for you all to see it._


	23. Chapter 23

When I stand in front of the microphone, I'm feeling the good kind of nervous. She won't hear it until it airs, and even then I can't be sure that she will be ready to hear what it is I'm trying to say. I smile a little then, because not too long after that, it will be released on its own. And with any luck, every time she turns on a radio or passes by one that's blaring, she'll hear it.

She'll hear it until the day comes when she really _hears_ it.

Hey, I'm a recovering famewhore, I might as well make it actually work for me the right way for once.

"I've got a special song to sing for you all tonight," I smile at the quiet murmur of polite interest that travels through the small, intimate crowd surrounding the simple stage. They have been warm and respectful so far, even clapping wildly for _Mirror, Mirror_, and laughing along with the parody that has become of _Glitter Pop_. I have chosen my song list for the evening carefully, trying to cherry pick those songs of mine that actually have some part of myself in them and not just that slick, media image version of me that I have been concerned with for far, far too long.

Somehow, the subdued, but still genuine, response I am getting here tonight means more to me than an entire stadium full of screaming fans. The lights around the stage are up enough so that the cameras and I have no trouble seeing their faces, and I can't help the feeling that as they are looking back at me, they really are looking at me and not just a projection of who they want me to be for them. The small, acoustic band behind me falls into a respectful silence when I tell the stories about each of the songs I have written, or had a part in writing. I began with _Mirror_, if only let them know that this night is going to be more than a glorified excuse to perform that song for posterity. The band, and the audience, laughs along with the stories that make fun of myself. They seem savvy enough to realize that this is an attempt on my part to begin the process of changing my public persona, but still seem intrigued enough in what it seems to be changing into watch with interest.

The red lights of the cameras surrounding me burn steadily in the corner of my vision, reminding me that they will capture this moment in time and broadcast it to whatever other part of the world is interested in watching me carefully deconstruct the image of me they have always known and begin the process of remaking it into something which more closely resembles the actual me underneath it all. It's a peculiar feeling. Still a little vulnerable and shy, but also strangely calming. Like now that I don't have to focus so much on trying to be whoever they want me to be, it's easier to remember why I wanted to be up here in the first place.

Not just to be heard for the sake of having the attention, but because I actually have something to say. And more importantly, someone to say it to. I glance up into one of the cameras and give a little smile and a wink.

"It's something new, actually. In fact, I wrote this song last night," there is a small ripple of excitement through the crowd, "and writing it reminded me a lot of the night I wrote _Mirror_. It felt almost like this time, I'm on the other side, like now, after a few years that have hopefully," I roll my eyes and get good natured chuckles from around the stage, "learned a few things. So if that song was myself staring into my mirror, looking for answers, then I guess this one is the mirror finally having some of the answers to give back to that little girl that I was. I couldn't have heard it at the time, but, I suppose better late than never."

I clear my throat softly, signaling behind me for the band to begin to play.

"This is for anyone out there who has ever felt like I did that night, looking into that mirror and trying to make peace with what you see," I look directly into the camera again. "And maybe it's for someone in particular, to let them know that I can see things clearly now, eyes wide open, and I'm not afraid anymore. It's called, _No Excuses_."

There is a small smattering of applause, that dies out as I being to sing softly, my voice dipping down into a lower key and my eyes drifting shut as I will the message I'm sending to be heard.

_No excuses anymore,_

_(Be who you are,_

_Be who you want to be.)_

_With a whisper, or a roar,_

_(Say what you mean,_

_Say what you have to say.)_

_Because the lie you tell yourself, _

_Is the one that hurts the most._

_The mirror's just a piece of glass,_

_The truth that matters is inside you…_

The first message I get from Brittany comes the same night my episode of _Storytellers_ airs. Even though I have been browbeating Rachel to keep me updated on how she is doing, and even sending the occasional message, it's the first time she has sent me anything directly. It's a simple text that says, _Your song was really beautiful_. It's the fifth night of the stripped down tour the label and I finally compromised on, I feel like I'm floating across the stage in Phoenix all night long.

The sales of my album have been respectable, if a little unsteady, as my audience also seems to be in the process of reinventing itself. Many fans seem to lose interest, now that they can't project their image onto me anymore, or because even though I haven't actually come out and said that I am gay, I'm not making any attempt to hide it anymore. The last time I was asked a leading question about what all this meant for me, and why it seemed like a lot of my music was implying I had been keeping a secret, I simply smiled, looked him in the eye and told him, "My life is an open book. But I'm not going to read it to you."

Very few seem interested enough in taking the time to read it for themselves, I can't say I'm sorry about that. The ones that do usually do it because they either love what it has to say, or hate it. It's worth it to me for those who love it. I signed a shirt on my way into the venue tonight that had the NoH8 logo on it.

That's goddamn right.

And when I sing the song that night, I feel almost as though Brittany can hear me, even half-way across the country.

_No excuses anymore,_

_(Be who you are,_

_Be who you want to be.)_

_No need to worry what's in store,_

_(Say what you mean,_

_Say what you have to say.) _

_You know, the answers that you need,_

_They have been there all along._

_If you don't like what you see,_

_You're the only one who can change it…._

There are murmurings about a love interest, but once the initial rush of gossip started to die down, the fact that I wasn't bothering to deny anything seemed to take the wind out of the rumor mongers sails a little bit. I'm sure they will take some notice if and when I am ready to be public with a relationship, but my no nonsense attitude has seemed to take the fun out of it for a lot of them. Isn't that just a shame?

It feels a lot like my fifteen minutes of fame has ticked its way down to the buzzer. But that's okay, because I think my career as an artist is just getting started, and I like this one better.

The first time she calls me, my bus is just passing into Detroit. She tells me she just heard my song on the radio, for the third time already that day, and just couldn't stand it anymore. I sent her a huge bouquet flowers the night before, to celebrate their opening night, and a box of chocolate truffles telling her to have a _Bella Notte_.

She giggles in my ear and it's the sweetest sound I've ever heard. We talk every day, mostly about what's going on with my career and with some coaxing she bashfully acknowledges all the critical raves she's been getting, which I surf for every day almost obsessively. I keep a file of them on my laptop. Many of them say she steals the show out from under Rachel, though most are glowing praise of them both.

Monday night, which passes as a weekend in the New York theater, I subtly carry my phone with me on stage in Philadelphia, with Brittany on speaker, so she can hear my concert live.

_No excuses anymore._

_(Be who you are,_

_Be who you want to be.) _

_With a whisper, or a roar,_

_(Say what you mean,_

_Say what you have to say.)_

And there, in the crowded venue, I'm singing it just for her. The music swells behind me, and my voice raises higher, as though it can reach all the way back in time to talk to the little girls both of us were back then, to let them know that no matter how difficult their paths, they would find their way eventually.

_Mirror, Mirror on the wall_

_It doesn't matter if I fall,_

_I will get right back up again_

_I will fight and I will win._

_No excuses anymore._

I slip off stage before the applause even ends. I hear her crying on the other end of the phone and panic, I feel my heart constrict as I hold my hand over one ear and press my phone against the other, "Are you okay, Britt?"

She sniffles, and in a voice I can barely hear whispers three words to me that make my heart soar through the roof, flying all the way back to New York.

_No excuses anymore._

_(Be who you are,_

_Be who you want to be.)_

The rest of me gets into New York three days later, and show up at her door a little after noon, feeling insanely nervous and armed with a pizza from Luigi's.

She gasps a little bit when she opens the door to find me there, even though she knew I was getting back into town today.

"Can I come in?" I ask, my heart pounding wildly.

With only the slightest pause, she steps back and opens the door wider.

_No excuses anymore._

It's only four days later when she gets a call from a nearly hysterical Rachel telling her that their show is moving to Broadway.

I wrap my arms around her from behind and tell her she might need to make room on her shelves for a Tony Award. She laughs at first, but stares at the shelf as though she can almost picture it.

I nuzzle into her neck and give it a kiss.

When I was young, my goal in life was simple. I wanted to be famous. I wanted people to know my name and love me. Like that would somehow convince me I was loveable, or even worthwhile.

In the end, it was the thing that kept me from it for the longest time, twisting my opinion of myself like a funhouse mirror until I could honestly believe that the only affection I deserved, that I could hope for, was the kind that I could buy.

I fell in love with a girl who thought the only thing she really had to offer someone was whatever part of herself she could sell.

I didn't save her, and she didn't save me. But we're having a hell of a good time proving each other wrong.

* * *

_I want to thank everyone for coming along for the ride with me, I had a lot of fun with this and a lot of ideas on how to continue the story, because especially as it got to the end, I realized that it was time to tell Brittany's side of the story, so that's what will come next._

_Not sure yet when I will start posting it, I like to get far enough ahead so that I know it will be updated and finished and I might take a few days to decompress from finishing this one before I dive head first into it. But I'm excited for the story and in the meantime, I think I have a few small stories that I haven't ever posted rattling around my hard drive that I will put up. A couple of them have been posted elsewhere, but not all of them so hopefully now that I've worked up the nerve to start posting at all and not just being Mistiec's 'anonymous writer friend' anymore, it'll be fun to put them out there and see what everyone thinks.  
_

_And so here is the prologue to the next story, No Excuses, which I think will give you at least an idea of what it will be like and I hope you might want to come along with me for another ride soon.  
_

* * *

The first time Brittany saw Santana Lopez, she was watching the small, portable television that her father always kept hidden so that her mom wouldn't start on any long lectures about the dangers of frivolous pop culture and the insipid cult of personality it inspired. (She wasn't entirely sure what that meant, because when she looked it up on youtube, it seemed like a pretty awesome sounding song, for being so old.)

Santana looked tiny and almost adorably shy and nervous, even on the tiny screen, as she was pulled out in front of the audience of _Regis and Kelly_ to sing a song called _Who Would I Be._

_Who would I be, if I could choose,_

_If I could try, and never lose_

_If there were nothing more to fear_

_Close my eyes and you'd be here_

And while she could probably blame it on fifteen year old hormones, she felt like when Santana looked at the screen and belted out that song, Brittany knew in her heart that

Santana was singing it directly to her.

_Who would I be, in someone's eyes_

_Without the whispers, or the lies_

_Would I have the strength to stand_

_To meet your eye and take your hand_

_Who would I be, _

_If you were here beside me?_

It would probably be an exaggeration to say she felt instantly in love. Instantly in crush on the other hand? Absolutely. She wrote Santana three letters over the next two days, buying a new box of rainbow colored pens so that each sentence would stand out to Santana, she would realize that the person she'd been singing to was out here and had heard her.

When her sixteenth birthday came two weeks later, she tried not to pretend all day long that she wasn't expecting a call. She had mentioned her birthday in one of the letters, and she waited anxiously hoping Santana was going to surprise her. She listened to the new CD her father had bought her, blithely ignored her mother's disapproving glare and listened to it over and over again.

She wasn't totally discouraged when Santana didn't call, because she was busy and maybe she hadn't gotten a chance to see the letters yet. So she talked her sister into helping her stage a protest in hallway outside of the Captain's room, trying to convince him that if he wanted to sell out every cabin, he should book Santana for the next cruise. She totally didn't mention that it would be here chance to meet Santana and talk to her, because she knew they would all think it was silly. Her sister might have thought it was a little silly, but she was open to bribery and it only cost a week's worth of deserts to get her on board the cruise ship that had been Brittany's home for almost five years now.

Brittany tried talking to the small troupe of dancers she loved to hang out with that worked the summer tours, doing magical and sometimes improvisational shows that they had even started letting her have small parts in. She hinted that a new young star like Santana would probably need backup dancers for her shows and this was their chance to get in with her from the start. It totally wasn't just her chance to meet up Santana. She also posted fliers all over the message boards and in the crew's mess hall.

They didn't really get a big turnout, and it was a little disappointed, but Brittany wasn't really discouraged. She would just have to find another way.

When the letter came a few days later, she actually screamed when she was the name on the envelope. Like, full a full on screech that made her mother come running into the room with wide eyes and a first aid kit in her hand.

Brittany didn't open her letter from Santana right away. She carried it with her, tucked securely in the waistband of her cargo shorts just so she could make sure and remind herself it was really there, while she did her schoolwork and finished her chores. She floated through the day on a cloud of hopes and possibilities. She wondered what Santana would say, when they could meet, what it would feel like when she could really look her in the eye.

It wasn't until late that night, tucked away in her bunk with a small flashlight under the covers that she carefully opened the envelope, edging open the glue bit by bit to make sure she didn't damage the paper. And when she cracked the envelope open, she knew what Charlie Bucket felt like when he was searching for his golden ticket. There were two pages inside, and she opened them both nearly vibrating with anticipation.

But it wasn't really a letter from Santana at all. There was a glossy picture of her, that looked like she had actually signed it herself, and a short letter that didn't even have Brittany's name on it, saying how glad she was to have such a great fan and thanking her for her support.

Her heart felt like it plummeted down, through the bottom of the ship, sinking down through the water like the necklace the old lady dropped in that movie that her parents wouldn't let her watch anymore, after she wore her life jacket for two weeks straight without even taking it off in the shower because it made her paranoid about the ship sinking.

Right then, she didn't care if the ship sank out from under her. It could break into pieces and she wouldn't even be afraid, because she had just known Santana would see her letter and she would understand. And if she didn't, then it felt like nothing mattered anyway.

Brittany couldn't bring herself to throw away the letter. She kept it securely in her nightstand, and put the picture on the wall next to her bed anyway, sometimes tracing over the name with her finger before she went to sleep.

One day, when she was sitting alone in the mess hall making a sculpture out of her mashed potatoes, the boy who bussed the tables offered her a flower. It was plastic and he had taken it out of one of the fake looking decorations that hung on the wall to remind everyone it was spring.

When he asked her if she wanted to go see the stars with him that night, she couldn't think of an excuse not to.

Four days later, when the fake flower was for another girl, Brittany found didn't really mind all that much. She shrugged and waved and went off in search of only place she ever seemed to really feel completely at home. The dancers welcomed her with smiles and waves and she found a place in the back where she could soak up lessons about how they moved and how to train her body to do the same. When she had it down, Brittany took a contented breath and let herself get lost in the music.

Six years later, when she stumbled in from the party at La Pomme, having once again let her hopes run wild again only to feel them crash around her, Brittany couldn't do anything but sit on her bed for the longest time, lost in a tangled maze of thoughts. Lord Tubbington had been with her since her father pulled him out of a hat for her ninth birthday and even though she knew now he hadn't actually been transported from some magical realm, there was a part of her that always thought of him that way. And on nights like this, when he sat vigil by her side like he was protecting her from whatever dangers lurked in the darkness, there was a tiny little part of her heart that believed it anyway. Just because.

She thought about the way Santana had looked at her, at first like she was something different, something more intriguing than all the others. Brittany's heart had pounded with excitement, because she knew if she just had the chance, she could make Santana feel so amazing. She could make Santana crave her like a drug, feeling things no one else could ever bring out in her. She knew it in her heart. Because this had been her chance, finally after all these years.

And then she thought about the way Santana had looked at her, just before she ran out of the club. Like she had just realized where she was and the type of person she was talking to, and realized she couldn't go through with it.

It made Brittany's stomach ache, and left a strange, hollow pain in her chest. Because it wasn't just that an old crush had looked at her like that, it was that for the first time in a long time, she couldn't ignore that part of herself that felt the same way, every time she looked in the mirror before going out on a call. It was in the way she always had to lie to her parents when they asked about work, or make excuses why her sister couldn't visit for long periods of time.

There was always an excuse why she couldn't quit. Because the rent was due, or because she was saving up for something that seemed so important at the time. Because she knew she'd probably have to work three or four jobs to make anywhere near the same amount of money, and it was always just easier to stay with what she knew.

But not anymore. There was nothing easy about tonight. There was nothing about this way she was feeling that was worth the extra money. There had to be something better out there for her, and even though she had known that for a while, she had never craved it in the way she did now. She was sure people had looked at her that way before, but she had never cared before. They didn't know her, and what they thought never touched her.

Santana was something different, though. The old, yellowed envelope bearing Santana's name sat on her nightstand, where she had dug it out in her excitement for the evening, brushing her fingers over the signature one more time for good look.

Brittany made up her mind and changed it back again over and over again, surfing feverishly through every online ad and call sheet she could find until she could convince herself finally that one way or the other she would just have to make it work, because she never wanted to feel this way again.

Four months later, when she sat a flight back to New York, staring numbly out the nearest window, Brittany wondered if it had all been for nothing. She wondered if this feeling was just there now, a part of her she would never be able to get rid of, never be able to escape.

When the lights of New York appeared out of her window, the plane circling around the Statue of Liberty the same way her flight had the day she first moved to New York City, full of hope and promise and dreams. She wondered now if she was even the same person anymore, or if she had let it all burn away under the glaring lights of the big city.

As exhausted as she was, there was a part of Brittany that needed to find a gym, or a studio, or maybe go to a club. Somewhere, anywhere, there was music to pound through her veins and let herself get lost in, so it could drown everything out for just a little while, and she could just be.


	24. Small Preview of No Excuses

_So people have been asking if I have been working on the story, and the truth is, not as much as I was hoping to. The show isn't exactly making it easy on someone trying to tell a story from Brittany's POV right now, even completely outside of canon. _

_But I am still working on it and here's a little bit of the story from early on, just to give another little preview to give a better idea of what the story will be like._

_This is also to get myself going a little bit, because I am excited for the story and want to get it far enough along I can really start posting and so hopefully this will be a kick in my own backside about not having any excuses anymore too. lol_

_Anyway, just a tease, and a promise that the new story is still coming. Slowly, but surely. _

* * *

Brittany was pretty sure the cast party was just a big excuse to make her watch Santana sing. Not that she would have been able to resist anyway. It's not like she hadn't already set her DVR, marked it on her calendar and watched most of the video marathons they had been showing the past couple of weeks after the release of her newest single.

There was just no way she could see _Santana Lopez Takeover _listed on her television and not get the inevitable butterflies that made her heart feel like it was fluttering around inside her chest. Especially when it seemed like every other commercial was teasing her with mentions of a brand new song that Santana had apparently written the same night Brittany left to come back home to New York. That thought alone was enough to make her lie awake thinking about. Was it a song for her, or about her? The prospect of that was somewhere between thrilling and terrifying. Because Santana knew what her fears were, and all that attention she was afraid of would be shining on her like a spotlight ready to expose everything she wanted to hide. But on the other hand, the idea of a song that Santana had truly written for her was like her greatest wish, her most prized childhood dream come to life. Ever since the first time she had heard Santana sing, there was a part of her that had always tried to imagine she was singing to her, for her, about her.

Any doubts she had that the song Santana was supposed to be singing had something to do with her had been wiped out by the almost amazingly unsubtle way that Rachel insisted on the watch part for the cast and crew, just so that she couldn't beg out of it without calling even more attention to herself.

They had all seen Santana at the first dress rehearsal and the way she and Brittany left together. Theater people gossiped like insanely desperate housewives backstage, and they hardly made any attempt to hide their interest and curiosity.

Brittany suspected that if she tried to leave before the show started, Rachel might actually panic and tackle her or something, tying her down to make her watch if she had to. And since bondage hadn't ever really been her thing, she resigned herself to the fact that there was no escape.

She was equally sure that Santana was the one who really had insisted that she be here, which was the reason she really didn't look harder for an escape in the first place. Because Rachel would only be this terrified of her not watching if Santana had threatened her with something. And even though Brittany didn't know what it could be, she did pass by her backstage the other day looking really pale and muttering something about a goat.

But if Santana had written a song for her, or about her, then she knew she owed it to her to listen. And by the time the montage of clips showing Santana that were filmed that day, Brittany knew she couldn't make herself leave if she wanted to. There were clips of conversation, shots of Santana laughing at whoever was interviewing her, different angles of her on the darkly lit stage surrounded by a small band.

It cut then to the first part of the interview. Brittany realized randomly that she remembered seeing the silk blouse Santana was wearing in her suitcase that day in the hotel room. She had touched it, marveling at how amazing it felt. She blinked and took a deep breath as Santana started to speak.

"It's all about mirrors, I guess." She laughed easily, but Brittany thought she could still see some tension in her face. "Everything is mirrors!" The video cut away for a moment, and then seemed to continue on with her interview, making Brittany wish suddenly she could see the whole thing. But then she could have, if she had stayed. "No, but really," Santana laughed again, "they help you see things clearly sometimes. And then sometimes they only show you what you are hiding behind, that image of yourself that you want people to see, even if it's not the truth. It's the truth you want people to see and to believe and then after a while you kind of get lost in it, and you forget what was really there underneath it all to begin with."

Brittany's heart pounded. Was Santana coming out? It sounded like it. She looked around, finding everyone else looking surprised as well. Rachel chewed on her lip and whispered something to Kurt, who was standing nearby.

"I mean, I don't know if I'm supposed to be the evil queen or Snow White or what," her nose scrunches up as she giggles and it's the cutest thing Brittany has ever seen. "Maybe I was both of them at the same time, like the evil Snow White I guess. Maybe everyone else saw me as one of them, but I felt like I was the other on the inside. And I just knew I felt like I was trapped. This song, the way I originally wrote it, was about that feeling of being trapped and not being able to see a way out. And feeling like maybe, somehow if someone could just see the truth, and see you for who you were, then it would make you feel…I don't know… more real somehow. Not quite so alone."

Gulping, Brittany remembered the raw emotions on Santana's face the night she sang it. That night, in a dark, crowded club when Santana sang the original version, she had felt like it was her moment to see a childhood dream come true, only to find that it turned into something like a nightmare. Because when Santana sat there in front of her, so wide open it almost made her ache, all it made Brittany feel was that she didn't deserve it. She had been hiding. And, if not lying, then at least not telling Santana the whole truth. Every time she asked herself why, or felt the urge to open up, there was always something that made her stop. Some excuse to put it off for just a little while longer, in case it changed how Santana felt about her, or made her angry.

So long as Santana thought she was still on the job, then at least she didn't have to worry about what was expected of her, or disappointing Santana in some way. That was one area where at least Brittany had complete confidence in her ability to fulfill any desires or expectations Santana might have of her. Or where she honestly believed she could be everything Santana might want. In her bedroom, at least Brittany had known where she stood.

But with her suddenly intense honesty, Santana had pulled them suddenly out into the open. It amazed her that she had seen every part of this woman's body, and shown her every part of her own, but there under the lights, they both seemed so much more naked than they had ever been.

"I don't know, I feel like I've learned a lot about myself lately," there was still a sadness in Santana's eyes as she chuckled again and it bothered Brittany suddenly that she didn't feel like she understood completely what was behind them now. She had gotten to feel like she could read Santana, could understand her pretty well, but watching her on the screen now there was a distance between them again. Like there had been when she was just a fan, watching her idol. "Sometimes I think that's just how life is. You're just going along, doing your thing and all of a sudden someone comes along or something happens in your life. And it's like _BAM_ growth spurt, whether you want it or not."

Now there was laughter coming from the behind the camera and Brittany felt an irrationally jealous ache, wanting to be there. It was strange, to have come to feel on some level like Santana was hers, at least for a little while, only to see her now shared so freely with the public again. Her hand twitched toward the phone in her pocket, suddenly intensely aware that all she had to do was push a few buttons and she could be talking to Santana, right now. Not seeing some conversation that was edited and polished for everyone else. She tried to remind herself of all the reasons it was a bad idea, but suddenly none of them felt like they mattered.

Taking a deep breath, Brittany focused on the television as the soft notes of the song began to play as this part of Santana's interview faded away.

"I guess you just have to hang on for the ride and try to figure things out. That's all any of us can do."

_Mirror, Mirror, don't be shy_

_I see the look there in your eye._

_Mirror, Mirror, tell me true_

_The face they see, is it me or you?_

Brittany blinked, staring at the large screen like it really was a magical mirror that could look right into her. She sniffed, not able to hold back the tears anymore. And then, before anyone could react, she jumped up and bolted for the door.


End file.
